Slipping
by WhatAmIDoingHere
Summary: Serious Mike whump w/a cool angsty story for good measure. Mike/Fi ShipperyDoDah, lots o Sam, plus Madeline, Virg, NotSoDead Larry, &more. TY 2all who continue to list as "fave story." Please do also consider reviewing though this has been posted a while.
1. Chapter 1

He was in trouble. The pain from his side radiated into his gut and down his back, driving him to his knees. Pressing a hand to the wound, he forced himself to his feet, lurching as a wave of dizziness accompanied the ascent. He caught himself against the alley wall, leaning hard, waiting for the world to stop tilting and trying to catch his breath. His brain told him he had to keep moving, but his body begged to differ. The searing pain accompanied by an alarming shortness of breath made a strong argument in favor of simply passing out.

Indeed, blood loss and pain were quickly overtaking him, to say nothing of the armed guards who by now had surely concluded his choice of exit and were likely only moments behind. At least they hadn't seen him, and as long as that remained the case he'd be okay… that is, as long as he could make it to his car before he bled to death.

Pulling together the last of his strength he pushed off from the wall and staggered forward. A bloody handprint and a trail of crimson heralding, 'He went thataway.'

It had been such a stupid mistake. Where had his head been? He had not even considered a silent alarm and was oblivious he had tripped it. He had heard them coming, of course. It had been what saved him. Their rushing steps and shouts of alarm giving him the time he needed to formulate his exit. He had jumped from the second story window, landing in a dumpster he'd calculated would break his fall. He had calculated wrong. Another mistake.

Instead of the standard bags of trash and empty boxes, someone had chosen to throw away a broken bar stool. On this he had landed, and a piece of broken spindle had pierced his side like so much butter. A year ago he would have already scoped out that dumpster, filing it away as a 'just in case' quickie exit, removing the bar stool and any other obvious hazards… just in case. A year ago he wouldn't have needed to jump _anyway_ because he would have spotted the silent alarm. He was slipping. And slipping got you dead.

Shaking his head he brought himself back to the here and now. He'd have to psychoanalyze later. Exiting the alley he tried to straighten to a more upright position. Attempting to blend in with the steady crowd of tourists, he hoped no one would notice this particular one was dripping blood like a stuck pig.

Making his way to his car, he fumbled in his pocket for keys, sighing with relief to find them still there. Not so his cell phone. That was long gone. Had he still had it, he'd have help by now. Opening the car door he eased himself in. Glancing into his rear view mirror he could see his pursuers had reached the sidewalk. They were looking intently at the ground and moving at a trot, obviously following his blood trail.

Time to go!

Leaning his forehead against the steering wheel as a wave of nausea hit, he put the key in the ignition and started the car. Beads of sweat now lined his forehead as he swallowed hard and made a futile attempt to take a deep breath. Straightening himself, he put the car in gear and eased out into traffic. One of so many other cars, he pulled away unnoticed.

Unfortunately he wasn't going far. Along with the nausea and dizziness, he was beginning to feel disconnected, his vision graying at the edges. Pulling into the first parking garage he came to, he found a dark corner and parked. Resting for a moment to gather himself, he reached a hand under the dashboard, searching for a cell phone he hoped was still there. It was. Not only that but it was charged and, miracle of miracles, had a strong signal. Dialing Sam's number he was relieved to hear him pick up.

"Yello! Sam here," came the cheery voice.

"Sam, it's Michael."

"Hey, Mikey! What's up?"

"I'm in trouble... I need help, Sam."

"Where are you?" Sam's voice came back, his tone instantly serious.

"In a parking garage off Sunset and Key. Third floor… "C" I think," his voice catching as he rode out another wave of pain.

"I'm on my way, Mikey. Just hold on. Mike? Hey, brother, you still there? Keep talking to me."

But Michael was no longer responding. He had used up the last of his reserves to get this far and could no longer combat the effects of his injury. Though the bleeding had stopped his breathing was now reduced to short quick sips of air. His vision was tunneling, his lips tingling from lack of oxygen from forced hyperventilation. He stared down in morbid fascination as the cell phone slipped from his hand and fell to the seat beside him, resting in a pool of his own blood. He could still hear Sam calling to him through its speaker as he sagged against the wheel and let the darkness take him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Sam threw a twenty on the table of the Flaming Parrot Bistro and headed quickly for his car, dialing Fi's cell as he went.

Heading home after a stop at the local Farmer's Market, Fi heard the familiar ring. Picking it up she rolled her eyes as she recognized Sam's number. _What could he want?_ She considered ignoring it but then again, maybe he was calling about a job. Pickings had been slim lately, and besides she could use a new pair of shoes, not to mention rent money always came in handy. She took the call.

"Sam," she sighed in a bored voice, "I hope you're not wasting my time."

"Fi, where are you?"

She frowned , "I don't feel the need to tell …"

"It's Michael, Fi," Sam said, cutting her off. There was no time for niceties.

She paused to gather her courage, steeled herself and asked, "Is he okay?"

Sam heard the trepidation in her voice and his tone softened. "He's in trouble, Fi. I think he's hurt. That's all I know. I'm heading to him now. Where are you?"

"Driving South on Montego, just passing Palm Street."

"Good. Get to my place and pick up my med kit. It's in the bottom of the hall closet, blue sports bag. Just bring the whole bag. Meet me at the parking garage off Sunset and Key. Know where it is?"

"Yes."

"Good. Third floor, section C."

"Sam…"

"I don't know, Fi, just hurry," he said, and hung up.

Though Sam had been in his new place nearly a year, Fi had never had the need, or inclination, to visit. Now she was glad she at least knew where it was. Making a U turn she sped toward it.

It wasn't far and once there she jimmied the lock and let herself in. She was surprised to find it tastefully decorated in what she would call Southwestern style. She was equally amazed how neat and tidy it seemed. This was not the image she had conjured of Sam's place, expecting it to be strewn with beer bottles at the very least. Hastening down the hallway she opened the closet door and immediately spied the bag. Unzipping it to confirm its contents as she went, she hurried out the door and headed back to her car.

Sam arrived at the parking garage and wound his way up to the third floor, searching for Michael's car. He soon found it and was pleased with the location. "Good boy," he thought, for it was a dark portion of the garage that looked thoroughly uninviting. The average tourist would see it as the perfect spot to get mugged, almost certainly moving on to search for a better, more well lit and appealing space. For the moment, at least, they should be safe from prying eyes.

Sam pulled up to the right of Michael's car, further blocking any curious passer bys view. Getting out he hurried around to the driver's side, where he could clearly see Michael slumped over the wheel. "Be alive, Mikey," he whispered under his breath. "Be alive."

Opening the door he put a hand to Michael's shoulder, shaking him gently. No response. Quickly checking for a pulse he was immensely relieved to find one. "Michael. Mike… Wake up, Buddy." Grabbing his shoulders, he gently maneuvered him back against the seat and away from the steering wheel.

Michael stirred and groaned.

"That's it. There you go."

"Sam?"

"Yeah, it's me. How you doing?" Sam asked. "You hurt? Bad guys get you?"

"My side," Michael groaned, motioning to his right, then clutching the wheel as once again the world tilted around him.

"Okay, buddy. Let me go take a look," Sam said, his voice even, kind, and calm.

Circling the car, he eased himself into the passenger side.

"Gunshot?" Sam asked as he pulled the shirt away from the wound, trying to get a better look.

"No… I fell… I think. I think I… landed on… something."

Sam frowned at the response. Michael seemed a bit disoriented and was obviously having trouble talking and breathing at the same time. Not a good sign.

"Okay, Mike. No problem. Let me just take a look here." Gently he wiped away some of the blood and tried to get a better look at the wound. And Sam's day went from bad to worse. He could literally hear the sucking sound as air moved into Michael's chest through his chest wall. Whatever he had fallen on had entered his side and proceeded upward, evidently puncturing his chest cavity.

"How you doing with your breathing there, Mikey?"

"Hurts."

"Yeah, I bet it does, Buddy. Just take it easy. Ol' Sammy is gonna fix you up. I'll be right back. You just sit tight."

Exiting Michael's car, Sam quickly went back to his Cadillac and rummaged through the glove box. "Thank you, Maddie!" he said with relief, and came back with a pack of Madeline's cigarettes. Ripping the cellophane wrapper off the box he placed it over the wound, sealing it down on three sides using Michael's own blood to temporarily adhere it. He left the fourth side open and unsealed.

Hearing another car he looked up in time to see Fi pull past, brake and back up. She was out of the car almost instantly, running to Michael's side.

"Michael? Oh, Michael, what happened to you?" she sighed. The amount of blood in the car not lost on her. "What were you doing?"

"Fi," he breathed, his voice catching. He couldn't believe how glad he was to see her.

"Shhh… Don't try to talk," she said, placing her hand to his face, trying to soothe away the pain she saw etched there. Michael leaned into her touch, relishing the contact, breathing in the scent of her, at least as best he could. Breathing was getting to be a real problem.

Meanwhile Sam had retrieved his med kit from Fi's car and slid back onto the seat, causing Michael to wince noticeably from the movement. "Sorry, Mikey," Sam sympathized.

Using a stethoscope from his bag, he proceeded to listen to Michael's chest, particularly concentrating on the right side, then checking back again on the left. There was no doubt the breath sounds were significantly decreased on the right. Sam frowned and looked across at Fi, who looked back at him with questioning alarm.

His previous suspicion now confirmed, Sam grabbed an occlusive bandage from his bag and quickly exchanged it with the earlier improvised dressing of cellophane.

Taping it in place he once again was careful to tape only three sides, leaving the fourth open as a "flutter valve." This way when Michael breathed in the dressing would be sucked over the wound and prevent more air from entering; and when he exhaled, the air would push the dressing off his chest and be able to escape. Securing the dressing on all four sides would likely cause more air to build up between the layers of covering protecting the lungs. This would be a bad thing.

Easing himself out of the car as carefully as he could, Sam motioned to Fi.

"I'll be right back," she said to Michael, squeezing one of his hands and locking eyes with him.

Standing, she walked to the back of the car where Sam was waiting, a worried look on his face.

"Fi, we gotta get him to a real doctor. Whatever stabbed him was traveling upward and penetrated his chest cavity. He's got a sucking chest wound and that's just for starters. I've covered the wound to stop more air from getting in but… he's in trouble. He needs help now, and at a hospital."

"No hospital," Michael's hoarse voice came from within the car. "You …. You can…" his voice trailed off, his strength waning.

"Not this, Mike. No. I can keep you going a while, but you need a real doctor," Sam explained, his voice belaying his own worries.

"No hospital," Michael repeated, even more adamantly.

Sam gave him an exasperated look. Arching an eyebrow he looked questioningly at Fi. What had Michael gotten himself into, and more importantly, why weren't they in on it?

"Barns…," Michael struggled for breath. "Barnsdale. Get Barnsdale," his face now screwing up from the pain and effort it took to speak.

"What? Bowler Barnsdale? I haven't seen him in years."

".. in Miami. … owes us…"

Michael attempted to continue but his face suddenly turned ashen. Making small choking sounds he threw himself back against the seat. He couldn't breathe.

Acting instinctively, Sam moved into action. Quickly pulling Michael from the car, he yelled to Fi, "Get my bag! Hurry!"


	3. Chapter 3

**First of all, I'm not a doctor. I don't even play one on t.v. This is F-I-C-T-I-O-N. For heaven's sake, don't try any of this at home. Oh, and I don't own anything whatsoever to do with Burn Notice. Bummer. **

**Okie dokie, here we go!**

**Chapter Three**

Laying Michael on the ground Sam turned him onto his injured side, the simple act relieving enough pressure to allow him to breathe. Fi had retrieved the bag for Sam and was now gripping Michael's hand as he attempted to catch his breath. Soon he was breathing much easier. Encouraged by Michael's change for the better, Fi looked hopefully up at Sam. He frowned back at her and shook his head, concern and worry clouding his face all the more. This reprieve wouldn't last. He knew the signs all too well. Michael's lung had collapsed from the accumulating blood and air. Changing his position and rolling him to the injured side had provided a brief respite, but that was all it was… and all too brief it would be, for Michael's chest would continue to fill. It needed to be drained in order to re-expand the lung. They were now in a life or death situation.

Coming around beside Fi, Sam crouched down beside Michael, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Mike. You're gonna have to trust me on this, brother."

Michael stared back at him wordlessly.

"Your chest is filling up with blood," Sam continued. "You know it, and I know it. We need to do something quick. You following me?"

Michael whispered hoarsely, "Chest tube."

"Bingo," said Sam, no humor in his voice. "You know what's ahead, Mikey. This isn't going to be fun. You still with me?"

Michael looked up at Sam. He was not only one of his very few trusted friends, but a former Navy Seal and a Combat Medic. He had used his skill on more than one occasion to save lives… including his own.

Michael slowly blinked his eyes, then whispered hoarsely, "Do it."

"Good man," Sam said. Patting Michael on the shoulder, he forced a smile. "Fi, you're going to have to help me," he said, rising to retrieve his bag.

"Yes…. Of course," she stammered, and then collected herself. "What do you want me to do?"

"Start by getting his shirt off," he said, tossing her his folded knife.

She opened it and went quickly to work. Michael watched silently as Fiona sliced through the material of both his shirt and undershirt. He grimaced from the slight movement as she tugged them from under him.

"I'm sorry!" she gasped, and long held back tears welled in Fiona's eyes. She bit her lip, still trying to hold them at bay. Michael reached a hand to her face. "It's okay, Fi. I'll be okay. I promise," he whispered. She grabbed his hand and kissed his palm, closing her eyes, letting the tears fall. Then gathering herself she continued with her task.

Meanwhile Sam rummaged through his med kit. Pulling out the necessary items, he laid them on Mike's discarded shirt in an attempt to keep them off the ground and at least minimally sterile. He was doing his best to use sterile techniques, but considering his operating theatre, knew it wouldn't be enough. He'd just have to try to keep things as clean as circumstances would allow. The urgent need for the chest tube outweighed the worry of a later infection.

Pulling out his flashlight, he switched it to lantern mode to see better in the gloom of the garage. "Okay, let's do this," he said with new found determination. "Fi, give me a hand."

Gently they maneuvered Michael onto his back, guiding his right arm above his head. "Keep that arm up there, Mikey, and try to hold as still as you can," Sam instructed, at the same time liberally swabbing Michael's side with antiseptic solution.

Michael shivered, unsure if it was from the cold of the antiseptic or blatant fear of what was to come.

"Fi," Sam continued, "You're going to have to try to hang on to him. Don't let him move around." Looking back at Michael, he gently warned again, "Mikey, you gotta hold as still as you can, brother." Michael acknowledged with a quick nod, trying to keep the trepidation from showing in his eyes.

Feeling along Michael's ribs Sam deftly located the space between the seventh and eighth rib. Normally he'd inject a local anesthetic at this point, but there was a limit to the supplies Sam had in his bag. He'd have to make do, and Michael would have to tough it out. Scalpel in hand, he looked Michael in the eye one last time and said, "Okay, brother, here we go."

Stealing himself, Michael merely flinched as Sam made the first incision lengthwise, directly over his rib. But the party had just begun. Using the hemostat, Sam used the tool to spread the tissue apart, methodically working his way down to Michael's rib, pressing down with the hemostat and spreading the tissues as he went.

Michael's breath was coming in short gasps. His head strained back and to the side. A tear trickled from the corner of his eye, combining with his sweat.

"Almost there," Sam said, and reaching the rib, he slid the hemostat up and over, continuing to press down and spread tissue.

Michael's head snapped back in agony. His entire body shook from the pain and shock. Sweat mixed with tears now ran freely down his face and he groaned, "Stop… "

"Sam!" Fiona cried. But there was nothing Sam could do but keep working. He couldn't stop. "Hold him down! Watch his arm!" he ordered and she struggled to keep Michael's arm pinned above his head.

"Oh please. Pass out. Why won't he just pass out?" Fi sobbed as she struggled to hold on to him.

Sam frowned and shook his head, thinking that anyone else _would _have passed out by now. Finally reaching the thin covering that protects and cushions the lungs, Sam paused.

"Okay, Mikey, almost there. You're going to feel some pressure…" and without further warning pushed forward with the hemostat and popped through the pleural lining and into the chest cavity.

Michael slammed his head back, his neck muscles bulging. He let out a strangled cry, unable to get enough breath to even scream.

Fi was using her entire weight to keep his right arm pinned and away from his side. All the while his other hand clenched hers so tightly she feared he would break it.

Unable to move his arms, Michael moved his legs, bending and flexing them, writhing against the pain.

Sam pressed on, using the hemostat to spread and enlarge the opening into the chest cavity. "Almost there…. Almost there." Grasping the tip of the chest tube he pushed it through the opening inserting it further into the chest, directing it upward.

Fluids immediately began to pour from the other end of the tube and Michael's breathing stabilized, becoming stronger and steadier. He trembled as he took in the air, still reeling from the agony of the moments before. And then finally, blissfully, Michael Weston let the darkness take him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

"Sam!" Fiona cried.

Sam quickly checked Michael's breathing and circulation, but wasn't overly concerned. "Its okay, Fi," he reassured. "He's just passed out. _Now,_" Sam added, grumbling to himself and making a face.

"Why didn't you do this before?" Fiona all but whined, looking down at Michael, the stress of the day taking its toll.

"Yeah, I'm with you there, sister," Sam replied in earnest.

Continuing to work, Sam connected the opposite end of Michael's chest tube to a catheter bag. He had already partially filled the bag with water from a bottle salvaged from the car. This would provide an improvised seal allowing the blood and air to be expelled into the water, while gravity and hydraulics would keep it from returning back into Michael's chest.

Still not done, Sam continued. Retrieving suturing supplies from his bag, he returned to Michael's side, deftly stitching the skin edges around the tube closed. Using the end of the thread, he then wrapped it around the tube, and secured it to Michael's skin. Placing some vaseline gauze around the tube to help seal the entry site, he covered it with a dry dressing and finally taped everything securely in place.

"Okay. It's official," he said, rocking back on his heels and wiping the sweat from his face. "I don't ever want to do that again."

"Agreed," Fi answered, unsmiling.

Standing up Sam took out his cell phone and called 411.

"City, State, and listing, please?" Questioned the crisp voice.

"Miami, Florida. Bowler Barnsdale."

"I'm showing no listing in Miami, Sir. I do have a B. Barnsdale in Glade Vista…"

While Sam was tracking down Barnsdale, Fiona knelt beside Michael. He was still unconscious but obviously breathing much better. "Oh, Michael," she sighed. "What were you doing?" she asked, brushing his damp hair back with her hand. "What were you doing?"

"Okay, got it," Sam said, coming back and waving a piece of scrap paper. "He's not answering the phone, but I got his address. He's in Glade Vista. 122 Homestead Lane." Picking up his bag he tossed it through the open window of his car. Opening the back door, he walked back to them. "Help me get him into the car."

Struggling, they lifted Michael into the back seat of Sam's Caddy, being careful to keep the tubing and bag lower than his chest. Fi sat in the back with Michael, his head in her lap.

Sam quickly parked Fi's car then got in the Caddy and started the engine. Looking in his rear view mirror at Fi, he asked, "How's he doing."

"Still out," she answered.

"Well, right now, that's not such a bad thing. Just watch his breathing." Punching the address on his GPS, Sam pulled out of the garage and headed south without further delay. They had an hour's drive in front of them and as far as Sam was concerned, he wanted to be there yesterday.

Bowler Barnsdale had been a Navy surgeon Sam and Michael had crossed paths with during a long ago mission. Barnsdale and other military personnel were working at a turns-out-not -so-secure medical facility overseas. The facility had been targeted by a terrorist group Michael had taken months to infiltrate. Sam had also been on the mission as the outside man. Someone dropped a dime on the operation and things had gone decidedly south. Michael took fire in the process of saving Barnsdale and most likely the rest of Barnsdale's team. Sam had swooped in, and between them they had saved the day. To this day no one ever knew who had betrayed them. In any event, Barnsdale had been eternally grateful to Michael and Sam, offering his future services should they ever be in need. Little did they know they'd actually take him up on his offer.

Ironically it had also turned out Sam had some odd history with Barnsdale, discovering their great grandfathers had actually been partners just before the turn of the 20th century. Barnsdale and Sam had simply chalked it up to "small world" and gone their separate ways. Now it seemed their paths would cross yet again.

Sam checked his watch against the GPS again and frowned. They had at least another 10 minutes to go. "How's he doing, Fi?" he called back for at least the tenth time during the trip.

"The same," she answered. "Still unconscious."

As if in response, Michael groaned and came awake. "Where am I?" he asked groggily, wincing as he spoke.

"Shhhh… try not to talk," Fiona soothed, putting a finger to his lips. "You're in the back of Sam's car. We're taking you to get help. Try to rest."

"We're almost there, Mikey," came Sam's voice. "I tracked down Barnsdale. He'll patch you up. You just hang in there a couple more minutes."

Michael reached to his waist. "My belt. Where's my belt?" he asked, alarm rising in his voice as he tried to sit up.

"Whoa, there, pardner," Sam said, seeing Michael come into view in his rear view mirror.

"Michael, stay still!" Fiona ordered sharply, both puzzled and alarmed. "What are you doing? Your belt is right here," she said, pushing him back down and handing him the belt. "I took it off to make you more comfortable," she explained.

"Ha, yeah, good one, Fi," came Sam's voice from the front seat. Fiona simply glared at him in response. "Joking, I was joking," Sam replied. "Look, I'm just trying to relieve a little tension. You're not the only one that's had a rough night you know."

Meanwhile, Michael grasped the belt with relief. Sighing heavily, he collapsed back onto the seat, unconscious again.

"What the heck?" came Sam's questioning voice. "What was all that about? Fi, take a look at that belt."

"Already looking," she said, gently removing it from Michael's grip. Sliding her hand along the belt she found a noticeable bump in the length of it. "Something here," she said, arching an eyebrow. Examining it closer she made her way to the end of the belt. With a little pressure the leather tip slid sideways and off. "That's interesting," she said, just as Sam pulled into Barnsdale's driveway.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

Pulling into the driveway, a motion activated light triggered on, dimly lighting up the car and surrounding area. Sam put the car in park and peered through the windshield at a quaint farm house. A hundred or so yards away and to the left stood a large barn like structure.

Picking up his cell once again, Sam wasn't surprised to find no bars. Tucking it back into his shirt pocket he blew the horn instead, prompting several dogs to begin a chorus of barking, immediately followed by the low sound of cattle and other farm animals. Sam wasn't expecting to find Barnsdale living on a farm.

The creaking of a screen door opening and slamming shut interrupted Sam's thoughts. Looking up he could see the figure of a large man striding toward them, backlit by the house's porch light. Seeing the silhouette, Sam was reminded just how big a guy Barnsdale actually was.

"Who's out there?" demanded the gruff voice.

Sam held his hands out and to his side. "It's me. Sam Axe. You remember… from back in the day."

"What? Sam Axe? What are you doing standing in my yard in the middle of the night?"

"I'm here with Michael, and, well, we got a problem."

"What kind of problem?" he asked, walking closer.

"Uh, yeah, well, remember when you said if we ever needed anything to just ask?"

"Yeah… So?"

"Well, we're askin'," Sam said, and opened the back door of the Caddy.

Barnsdale stepped closer and peered into the back seat. Inside a small woman peered back, fear shining in her eyes. Fear, not of him, but clearly from concern for the man whose head she held cradled in her lap. Pale and bloodied, he appeared to be unconscious.

"I take it that's Michael?"

"That would be correct," Sam confirmed.

"Is he stable?"

"Barely, but… yeah."

"Okay, wait here. I'll be right back," he said, and headed off toward the barn at a fast clip. In a moment they heard a rattling sound, soon identified as a gurney being quickly pushed toward them.

Returning to the Caddy's back door, Barnsdale leaned in and offered Fiona his hand. "Evening, Ma'am," he said kindly. "I'm gonna need you to step out so I can get in there and take a better look. I promise to take good care of him."

Taking Barnsdale's hand, Fiona gently eased out from under Michael's head and allowed herself to be helped from the car.

Leaning his large frame into the car, Barnsdale did a quick assessment of Michael's condition. "Okay, I can't do anything in here and it looks like he's movable. Help me get him on the gurney."

With Sam and Fi's help, Barnsdale gently eased Michael from the car. Once clear Barnsdale immediately lifted and carried him to the gurney a few steps away.

Easing Michael onto the gurney he began a more thorough assessment. "Okay," Barnsdale said. "Somebody want to tell me what happened?" he asked, working as he talked, evaluating Michael's condition. "The short version," he said, looking pointedly at Sam and Fiona. "That means leave out the stuff I don't want to know. 'Cause if I don't know it, I don't have to report it."

"Right," Sam drawled. "Okay. The short version it is then! As far as we know he fell on something," Sam began. "It traveled upward and punctured his chest cavity. We put in a chest tube and here we are."

"So, let me get this straight," Barnsdale said. "He falls down and pokes a hole in himself. Instead of taking him to any number of Miami Hospitals, you put in a chest tube all by yourself, put him in a car, and drive for hours to bring him to see… me.

"Yes," they answered together.

"Yeah, pretty much, yeah," Sam added.

Barnsdale raised an eyebrow and leaned back on his heels, looking at them in disbelief. They both blinked back at him innocently.

"Hey, you said you wanted the short version," Sam reminded.

"So I did," Barnsdale responded, and shaking his head, got back to the task at hand.

Gently he probed Michael's wound, trying to get a better look. "He's got some debris in there. What did you say he fell on? Looks like wood," he continued. "When did this happen?"

Michael groaned loudly at Barnsdale's ministrations, arching his body he tried to turn away from the offending prods. Sam moved quickly to his side. "Whoa there, Mike," he said, gently grasping his shoulders and easing him back down onto the gurney. Glancing at Barnsdale, he chastised, "Take it easy, would ya?"

"Gotta be done, Sam," Barnsdale answered in a low voice, clearly steeped with empathy.

Michael slowly relaxed, mumbling something incoherent. Fi grasped his hand and stroked his forehead. "Shhhh," she soothed.

Barnsdale asked again, "When did this happen?"

"I'm not exactly sure. I found him around three o'clock this afternoon. Don't know how long he'd been there or when it happened."

"Was he unconscious when you found him?"

"Yeah, but he came to petty quickly," Sam said almost hopefully.

"Okay, let's get him inside."

"He feels warm," Fi said, still holding Michael's hand as they pushed his gurney towards the house.

Barnsdale frowned in agreement, picking up the pace as they headed toward the building.

It turned out "inside" was not at all what Fi and Sam had expected. Opening the door they were shocked to see what could only be described as a kennel. Beyond that were stalls, empty but for one horse and a rather large goat.

"What the… What is this place?" demanded Sam.

"It's my office."

"You're office?" Fi asked, looking around.

"You're a VET?," Sam asked, incredulously.

"Yeah, I guess you could say I'm a Vet of a different sort now," Barnsdale grinned. "Here we are, get the door for me, will you?"

Sam swung the door wide and Barnsdale pushed the gurney through and into what looked to be a well appointed, modern exam room. "I keep this for my human patients," Barnsdale explained.

"I don't get it, Barnsdale," Sam said. "You were a Navy Surgeon. What are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere taking care of Aunt Bessie's cow?

"Couldn't take it anymore, Sam. I'd patch them up, turn around and they'd be right back on my table again. When I got back to the States I went back to school and… here I am," he said, motioning around him. "I still have my medical license. Just don't use it much anymore. I help out when I can. Most who come here are homeless, some combat vets I knew from before. They come to me. I set the occasional broken bone, treat the occasional infection. Mostly they just need a hot meal and someone willing to listen to them. I don't see too many Michael Weston's come through here," he added.

"Yeah, well, you didn't see this one, either," Sam warned.

"No problem," Barndsdale assured. "He wasn't here, and I don't want to know anything about what's going on."

"Well, that's not going to be a problem," Sam assured. "Because Fi and I don't have a clue, either."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Barnsdale maneuvered the gurney next to the exam table. Draping its sheet over the table, he nodded to Sam. "One… two… three," he said, and with precision born of experience, they expertly slid Michael from the gurney and onto the table. Checking Michael's pulse and respiration, Barnsdale was satisfied he was still, at least for the moment, stable. Looking up he glanced at Sam and Fiona and found them staring back expectantly.

"Ma'am, you might want to wait outside," he said.

"I don't think so," Fiona said, incredulous he would even suggest it. "I'm not going anywhere."

Barnsdale raised an eyebrow and glanced at Sam as if for back up. Instead, Sam surreptitiously shook his head in warning. Fiona was one battle Barnsdale could not win.

"Ma'am, I don't think you understa.."

"I'm not leaving," Fiona cut him off and stood glaring at him, the picture of utter defiance.

By now Sam had made his way behind and to the right of Fiona. Clearing his throat in an effort to gain Barnsdale's attention, Sam waved his hands in the air, violently shaking his head and mouthing the word, "No."

Fi suspiciously glanced over her shoulder, only to find Sam using his hands to slick back his hair. He smiled at her innocently. "Oh, hey, Fi. Man, this hair. I really need to get it cut." She frowned back at him in annoyance and then glared anew at Barnsdale. Sam rolled his eyes and walked away, giving up.

Done with the show, Barnsdale sighed. "Fine," he said, exasperated, and scissors in hand began removing what was left of Michael's clothing. "You can get his shoes," he said, and unfazed, Fiona pulled them off along with his socks.

"At this point, I'm just gonna assume no spinal injury," Barnsdale said to no one in particular, walking over to a cabinet and pulling out a sheet.

"Uh, yeah," Sam responded, a hint of guilt in his voice. He knew he hadn't followed procedure for a possible spinal injury but had gone with his gut. He'd taken an awful chance pulling Michael from the car back at the garage. Still, in the end, it had saved his friend's life.

Returning, Barnsdale removed the last of the bloodied clothing and tossed it to a corner of the room. Quickly covering Michael's body with the sheet, he folded the top down just below Michael's hips and then began methodically searching his upper torso for other signs of injury.

Repeating the process for his legs, he folded the bottom of the sheet up, leaving just enough still draped across Michael to protect his modesty. Glancing at Fiona as if to give her one last chance to retreat, he discreetly lifted the rest of the sheet. Moving on quickly he replaced the covering, and with Sam's help proceeded to turn Michael onto his side, continuing the process of checking for additional injuries.

"Okay, that's good," he said, finally satisfied, and eased Michael onto his back again. "Well, there's plenty more trauma," he said, turning toward Fiona and Sam, "but none of it recent. Looks like its just the stab wound we're dealing with." Moving across the room he opened another cabinet and pulling out a heavy cotton blanket, covered Michael. "Try to keep him warm," he said. "I need to get some chest x-rays. Sam, can you get a line in him while I get things started? Supplies are in the top right cabinet."

"Will do, Doc." Sam responded as Barnsdale left the room.

"I like him," Fiona stated, catching Sam completely off guard.

"What?" Sam couldn't believe his ears. "That look you gave him a little while ago would have given Freddie Krueger nightmares. Now you're telling me you _like_ him?"

"Well not _like _him, like him," she said, rolling her eyes. "I mean, he treats me like a lady." And she drew out the word 'lady' as if enjoying the way it sounded.

"Yeah, that's a good one," Sam snorted. "Lady. Ha."

"I find him charming," she said. "Unlike some other people I know," she added, and smiled at Sam in a manner meant to be anything but sweet.

Sam stepped back in an exaggerated cringe, "Yeah, see, that's just what I'm talkin' about."

Fiona simply shrugged.

Sam shook his head and crossed the room to the cabinets. He needed to get going with the IV. Grimly he began assembling the supplies.

Sam really didn't like starting IV's. Needles creeped him out, and plugging in IV catheters was the worst. He was glad Michael was unconscious. He'd caused him enough pain today and didn't really want to add "driving giant hollow spike into vein" to the list. Opening the cabinet he methodically checked off in his mind the needed items as he placed them one at a time on a sterile medical tray.

While Sam was assembling what he needed, Fiona returned to Michael's side, her demeanor immediately softening. Tucking the blanket closer around him, she was surprised and happy to see his eyes flutter open.

"Hi there. How are you feeling?" she asked gently.

"What happened?" he groaned.

"We were hoping you could tell us, Michael" she said, her voice hardening a tiny bit. "Sam," she called out. "He's awake."

"Oh crap. Geez, Mikey. You have the worst timing," Sam groused under his breath, returning with his tray.

Seeing the contents, Fiona paused and glanced at Sam in mild alarm. The chest tube had almost looked less ominous.

Sam coughed and gave her a warning look, placing the tray down on a counter behind Michael and out of his line of sight. No one enjoyed getting an I.V. and there was no sense in waving it in front of him. He'd already had a bad enough day.

"The key, where's the key?" Michael asked.

"Ah, so that's what's in your belt. You really should be more careful hiding things, Michael," Fiona chastised.

"Where is it? My belt. The key… Sam!" He switched from questioning Fi, hoping for a speedier answer from Sam. Agitated, he lifted partway off the table and then gasped in pain, falling back again and nearly coming off the edge of the table.

"Okay, you satisfied?" Sam asked, catching him. "That was smart," he added, helping him lay back fully onto the table again. "You done?"

Michael sighed and nodded.

Frowning, Sam continued, "As far as the belt, we have it, and the key, too, if that's what's in it. What we don't have is an explanation about what it is you've been doing. And don't give me any song and dance. I've had it. Fi's had it. Your mother has… Oh crap. Maddie!"

"Fi, we need to get in touch with her. Cells don't work. Try Barnsdale's phone."

"Okay, I'll be right back," she said, eyeing Michael. "But if he comes up with an explanation, I want to be here for it," she said, and walked out the door to make the call.

Looking back at Michael, Sam's tone softened. "Look, Mikey. I don't mean to yell at you. You know that. It's just that, well, we're a team and we need to trust each other."

Michael lay silently on the table, his face a mask of anguish. He was so tired of it all. So very, very tired. A lump rose in his throat and he fought against his emotions.

"We know you're up to something. You have been for months. Exhausted all the time, making stupid mistakes, forgetting things... And now this. You're into something. We want to know what it is. We can help you, but you have to trust us, Brother."

Michael continued to stare silently into space.

"Okay, I get it," Sam said dejectedly. "Anyway, we still need to get you patched up," he said, changing the subject, and patting Michael gently on the shoulder. "Barnsdale wants an IV started and it looks like I'm the man for the job."

Moving to the back of Michael's bed Sam removed a fluid bag from the tray, and pulling a stand over from the corner, hung it from the metal hook. Picking up the tray, he made his way back to the left side of Michael's bed. Retrieving Michael's arm from under the blanket he searched for a good site, opting for the large vein in the crook of Michael's elbow.

Picking up a tourniquet, Sam tied it a few inches above his target area. Wiping the site with alcohol he took the time to make sure the vein was straight. Removing the cap from the 16 gauge catheter, he glanced again at Michael. "Here's the stick," he said.

Michael said nothing, and continued to stare at the ceiling.

"Okay then," Sam said. Pulling the skin taut with one hand he inserted the large needle catheter, trying his best to get just the right angle. Michael tensed and his arm jerked slightly. "Almost done, partner," Sam said, and seeing blood in the catheter's plastic applicator, smiled. He'd hit it first try.

Advancing the catheter further into the vein, Sam removed the needle. Pulling off the tourniquet, he applied pressure with his fingers to prevented back bleeding, then attached the IV tubing and taped the catheter securely to Michael's arm. Opening the line, he smiled again as he saw fluid dripping in the drip-chamber. He'd done it.

"All done, Mikey," Sam said triumphantly, just as Fiona reentered the room.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

"Well, I just had an interesting conversation with Madeline," Fiona said, striding into the room and going straight to Michael, planning on demanding some long awaited answers. She didn't know why she hadn't done it before. What was wrong with her? This wasn't the way Fiona Glenanne operated. She expected answers, and this time she was going to get them if she had to beat it out of him!

As she approached his bed he looked up at her, his face a mask of pain. Pain she was well aware wasn't just of the physical kind. …And Fiona's heart broke. Instead of demanding answers, she grasped his hand in an effort to comfort him. _What was it_? _What was wrong? What had he gotten himself into? _she wondered, desperately. _And why, oh why couldn't he tell her?_

The touch of her hand in his was almost too much for Michael to bear. He yearned to reach for her, collapse into her arms and never, ever let go. He was so tired of trying to save the world, trying to save everyone in it, and all the while slipping away himself. To feel the simple comfort of her hand made his heart ache. He loved her; truly loved her. He wondered if she really knew, really understood how much she meant to him. He wondered if he could ever let go enough to tell her. But, no, she deserved better. Better than the likes of him. Michael Weston, burned spy. Disgraced and abandoned… by his own, no less. A woman like Fiona deserved so much more; so much more than he could give her. A deep sadness overcame him as the thought swirled in his head, and he looked away, embarrassed by emotions too close to the surface.

"Oh, Michael," Fiona sighed, gently stroking his warm forehead with her fingers, saddened to watch him once again pull away from her. Noticing the IV snaking out from under his blanket, she asked softly, "How are you doing? Are you in pain? I see Sam set up your IV."

"I'm fine," he said, but was clearly not. Between the physical pain and the emotional strain, he was far, far from okay. Fiona had never seen him so close to the brink. Her heart ached for him. Why wouldn't he let them help him? Why wouldn't he let them in; her in? Yes, she was unhappy about the secret he was so obviously keeping from them, but in the end, she loved him; truly loved him. She wondered if he really knew, really understood how much he meant to her. Or was she simply just another asset to him? Was it possible for Michael Weston to truly love her? Fiona Glenanne, rebel… Leprechaun? No. He deserved better. They were simply friends. Friends and sometimes desperate lovers, but clearly, they would never be more.

"It seems Virgil has been trying to reach Michael," she said, shaking the thoughts from her head and speaking over her shoulder to Sam. "Madeline says he's called repeatedly. She's on the way out here, by the way."

"Oh man. Didn't you try to stop her?" Sam asked.

Fiona arched an eyebrow, "Do you really think I could have stopped her?"

"Right," Sam acknowledged. "What about Virgil? Did you call him?"

"Yes. He's on the way, too. It seems he and Michael have something important to talk about. A key perhaps?" she said, looking pointedly at Michael.

Michael's eyes widened at the news. He clenched the sheet with his fist and noticeably grimaced.

"What key?" Barnsdale asked, coming back into the room and crossing over to Michael. "I got the machine set up," he said, gesturing toward the door he'd just come through. "What key?" he repeated as he checked Sam's IV handiwork.

"Oh, it seems Michael has a secret," said Fiona.

"When don't he?" Barnsdale snorted. "Doin' that spy stuff and all," he said as he continued to work; now checking Michael's vital signs.

"Sam," came Michael's voice. It was barely above a whisper. "Sam," he said again, "you have to leave. _Now._ Take Fiona with you."

"Excuse me?" Fiona protested.

"Yeah, you see," Sam chimed in. "I don't think so, Mikey. I think we're gonna wait right here and talk to Virgil ourselves. And then we're gonna finally get to the bottom of all this crap, and you can like it… or not. I don't really give a rat's patoot."

"Sam," Michael sighed, anguish in his voice, "You don't understand…"

"You're right, Mikey, I don't understand. But I'm going to."

Uncomfortable silence filled the room. Except for the occasional dog barking from a kennel, they could have heard a pin drop.

"Okay," said Barnsdale, clearing his throat. "Sorry to interrupt the conversation," he said, "but I got an x-ray generator warmed up in my radiology room, and this boy's got a date with it." Unlocking the brakes on the exam bed, he began to wheel it from the room. "Ma'am," he nodded at Fiona as he pushed Michael past her. "I'll take good care of him, I promise. Just take a few minutes. He'll be right back," he said, and pushed Michael through the door and out into the adjoining hallway.

"You're a lucky man, Weston," Barnsdale said, as the door closed behind them.

Michael made a throaty sound. "Yeah," he smirked at Barnsdale's poor attempt at humor.

"I'm not kiddin' with you," Barnsdale corrected, rolling the bed down the hall. "Not many folks in this world got friends like that," he said, gesturing back toward Sam and Fiona. "That lady? She loves you, Westin. In fact, I'm surprised she even let you out of her sight. An hour ago I thought she was gonna tear my head off just asking her to leave you for a few _minutes_.

And Sam. Sam… Well that man would die for you. I can tell. Can see it in his eyes. And he's already saved you… and I'm willing to bet more than once. Besides, not many could have… or would have gotten that chest tube in," he said, tapping Michael's chest gently. "Especially in what kind of conditions he was dealin' with."

"Yup," Barnsdale continued, backing the wheeled bed into the radiology room. "Those two would defend you 'til their last breath. Not many people in this world with friends like that. Like I say, you're a lucky man, Westin. You ought to remember that the next time you decide to lie to them..."


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

Michael flinched at Barnsdale's words, wounded by the accusation. "I didn't lie. I never lied," he said. "I just didn't… tell them everything." his voice was low and becoming a bit labored. "I _can't_ tell them…"

"Uh huh," Barnsdale grunted. "Well, all I have to say is you better figure out a way you _can _tell them, and real, real soon."

Back in the exam room Sam and Fiona collapsed into chairs. Exhausted, they simply stared across at each other. They'd been up since the day before, and the morning of the second day was now dawning.

"I'm getting too old for this," Sam said, wishing he had a beer in his hand. "How are you holding up?"

"Oh, I'm fine. You know, _Life with Michael_. Always an adventure," she said, falling back in her chair and sighing heavily. Then after a short silence asked, "What do you think, Sam? What's going on?"

"I don't know what to think, Fi. I think he's in over his head. I _know_ he is. I guess we're gonna have to wait for Virgil to find out exactly how far.

"Do you think he'll tell us?"

"Virgil? Oh, yeah," Sam said, in a tone that conveyed there'd be no other option. "He'll tell us." Then lightening up a bit, asked, "By the way, where was he when you talked to him?"

"I don't know," she answered. "He said he was leaving right away but it would take him about two hours to get here. I don't know where he was. But Madeline…"

"Should be here any moment," Sam finished her sentence. "Oh, boy. What are you going to say to her?"

"What do you mean what am _'I'_ going to say to her?"

"Well, yeah, you know… You being a girl and all. More or less…," he coughed.

"Thank you for noticing, Sherlo… What do you mean, _more or less?_"

"Oh, come on, Fi. You know what I mean."

Frowning at him deeply, Fiona sighed and returned to the original line of questioning. "Do you have any _good_ reasons why it should be me and not you?"

"Yeah," he said, abruptly, making a face. "I'm way more afraid of her!"

"Oh, please."

"Hey, she never threatened to smother _you_ in your sleep!"

Fiona arched an eyebrow and a small smile appeared on her lips. She really loved Madeline.

Almost on cue they heard dogs begin to bark, followed by a car horn blowing incessantly. Rising from their seats, they looked at each other, took a deep breath as if to gather strength, and headed outside.

By the time they got there Madeline had already exited the car and had made her way to the front porch of the farm house. White shirt tail fluttering in the breeze, she was knocking on… or rather assaulting…. Barnsdale's screen door. She banged again with the open palm of her hand, her red hoop earrings bouncing wildly, dancing in rhythm with the action of the screen door. "He's gonna need a new one of those," Sam commented, just as the top hinge popped loose and the door lurched to one side.

"Madeline," Fiona called out to her.

Madeline turned instantly at the sound of Fi's voice. Waving, she hustled quickly toward them, leaving the beleaguered screen door to dangle from its final hinge. "Oh thank goodness," she cried, quickly closing the gap between them. "I couldn't get anyone to answer the door! Where's Michael? What are you two doing out here?" Then, seeing them more clearly as she approached, cried out in alarm. "Fiona! Sam! You're bleeding!"

"What?" they said in unison, only to realize at the same time as Madeline it was Michael's blood she saw. In their haste and exhaustion they hadn't even noticed until now.

"Where is he?" Madeline asked, and they could hear the fear in her voice. "Where is he?" her voice rose. "Is he, is he… alive?"

"He's fine, Maddie," Sam said, crossing over to her. "He just got himself into a little trouble again, that's all," he said clasping her shoulders. "You know Michael," he laughed nervously. "He'll be okay. Fi, tell her he'll be okay."

"He'll be okay, Madeline," Fi said, shooting a look at Sam. "Why don't you come in and we'll take you to him. He should be back in his room by now." And taking her by the arms, they both guided her through the door and inside.

Immediately Madeline was struck by what she saw. Looking sideways past Fiona, she spied rows of dog kennels and smaller cages stacked in a sterile looking room. "What is this place?" she asked, all but being pulled along through the next set of doors.

"Oh, that's just uh…" Sam began, actually at a loss for words.

"Oh my gosh!" she interrupted as they passed into the next 'room'. "Is that a …_horse_? What is a horse doing here?" she asked, totally exasperated. "Stop pulling me!" she exclaimed, slapping their hands away even as they continued trying to propel her forward.

Pulling away from them, she put her hands on her hips and glared at them. "Why is there a horse…" She was interrupted midsentence by a nuzzling sensation at her hip. Looking down she saw a furry muzzle pull a pack of cigarettes from her pocket. "_Aaaaaaiiiigghhh!_" she screamed, lurching forward, turning just in time to see a large goat mauling her cigarettes. "What kind of hospital _is_ this?" she shrieked. _Sam!"_

"Well, it's sort of a... it's sort of a…

"What?" she asked, moving quickly back to where they stood.

"Well, it's sort of an _animal _hospital."

"An ANIMAL hospital? You took my son to an _animal_ hospital?"

"Well, we didn't know… not at first," Sam tried to explain.

"You didn't know? How could you not know the difference between a hospital and a veterinary clinic? Are you stupid?"

"It wasn't like that, Maddie. We couldn't just take him _anywhere_…"

"So you brought him to a _goat_ doctor?"

Exasperated, Sam gave up. "Fi, you want to step in?"

"Oh, I think you're doing _fine_," she smirked.

Then feeling sorry for Madeline, Fiona began to explain, "Madeline, it would have been dangerous to take Michael to a regular hospital. The doctor here is a Navy surgeon. Michael and Sam know him. Michael himself told us to bring him here." Taking Madeline's hands in hers she continued. "It's true this is a veterinary hospital but it's also a clinic of sorts. A _people_ clinic. It's quite nice, actually," Fiona reassured her. "We just happened to come in through the Veterinary entrance. You'll see."

"Well… where's Michael? Can I see him?" Madeline asked, calming down but still looking confused and more than a bit freaked out.

"Yes, we're taking you to him now. Remember?" Fiona said gently, guiding her through the next door which opened onto a tiled and sparkling clean hallway. Finally arriving outside the exam room they entered only to find it still empty. "He's not back yet, Madeline. I'm sure he'll be here shortly.

"Yeah," Sam said, pulling out a chair. "Why don't you sit down, Maddie," he offered.

"I'm too nervous to sit, Sam." Searching her shirt pockets, she looked around. "And that stupid goat ate my cigarettes!"

Just then Barnsdale backed into the room, pulling Michael's bed through the door with him.

"Michael!" Madeline exclaimed, running to her son's side.

"Ma…" he said, surprised she had already arrived. "When did you… get here?"

"Oh, Michael! What did you _do_ to yourself?"

"I'm fine, Mom. …I'm fine."

"You don't look fine," she said, noting the paleness of his skin and deep circles under his eyes, not to mention he seemed out of breath. A slight shiver went over him and Madeline pulled his blanket closer around him. Instinctively she put her hand to his forehead. "Michael," she said worriedly, "You're burning up."

"Yeah, we're going to try to do something about that," Barnsdale said, interrupting.

Madeline looked up at the large man smiling brightly back at her.

"Morning, Ma'am," he greeted Madeline. "I guess you must be Mrs. Westin. Heard a lot about you, Ma'am. My name is Dr. Bowler Barnsdale. I prefer just plain Barnsdale if you please, or you can just call me Doc."

Madeline looked at him in silence for a moment, then suddenly and without warning reached up and grabbed him by the ear. Pulling him down to her level, she looked him directly in the eye. The room was completely silent as the occupants simply stared in shocked disbelief. Madeline was now operating in full Mama Mode. "Listen here, _Bowler_," she said, emphasizing his first name. And her audience's eyes grew wider.

Barnsdale hated that name. He was a mountain of a man, and just like you didn't spit into the wind, you didn't tick off a mountain lest it _fall_ on you. "Listen here, Bowler," Madeline continued. "That's my son over there on that table. He's not some horse or a crazed goat with a nicotine habit. He's my son. You treat him like he's the President of the United States or you'll have me to answer to. Are we clear?"

"Ye.. Yes, Ma'am!" Barnsdale stuttered. And Sam thought for a second Barnsdale was actually going to salute.

"Good," Madeline said crisply, smiling, and with a cheery lilt to her voice. "Now what were you saying, dear?" she asked him sweetly, releasing his ear and patting his check."

"Uh, I was… I was…"

"You were going to tell me what you plan to do about Michael's temperature."

"Uh, yeah. Uh…." He looked over at Sam as if questioning if he knew Michael's mother was psychotic. Sam simply shrugged back, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows.

Sam didn't have much time to enjoy the newfound entertainment as the door to the room opened and in walked Virgil. He'd arrived sooner than they'd thought.

"There you all are," Virgil exclaimed. "Man, I didn't know _where_ I was. What is this place? You aren't gonna believe this, but I swear I just saw a goat back there with a cigarette in its mouth!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Sam said. "You and me, we gotta talk," he said, grabbing Virgil by the shirt and pulling him over to a corner of the room.

"Hey! Watch it. What's the hurry, buddy?" Then glancing toward Michael, asked, "How is he?" And, more quietly, as if sharing a secret, "That crazy son of a gun. Do you believe he went in on his own like that? Did he get it?"

"Get what?" Sam asked.

"What do you mean, what?" Virgil asked.

"Virgil… Virgil, don't…" Michael called out.

Virgil started toward Michael but was stopped abruptly by Sam not so gently pulling him back.

"Hey! Eyes on me, fella," Sam said. "You talk to me, first."

"Good gosh!" Virgil exclaimed, finally getting it. "He still hasn't told you, has he?" he asked, looking over at Michael and then back at Sam. "You really don't know, do you?"

"Virgil…" Michael called out again.

"Look Virgil," Sam said, zero levity in his voice. "I have not slept in two days. I want to know, and I want to know now," he said, thumping his finger into Virgil's chest. "Last chance," he said, emphasizing each word. "What is this all about?"

"You really, really don't know…" Virgil's voice trailed off.

"Virgil!" Sam all but roared.

"It's about you, Sam," Virgil said, his voice low and careful. "It's _ALL_ about you. "


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter NINE**

While Sam and Virgil spoke privately in the corner of the room, Barnsdale moved back to his patient. Michael was becoming increasingly agitated, ignoring Fiona and Madeline's repeated requests to calm down. It was clear his distress was connected to whatever Sam and Virgil were discussing.

"Hey, Mike," Barnsdale said gently, "You need to settle down before you mess up Sam's handiwork."

"Virgil..." Michael called out past Barnsdale, then looking up at him. "I need to talk with Virgil," he all but pleaded, almost gasping now, trying to rise up from his bed. "Virgil, don't…" he called out again.

Barnsdale grabbed Michael by the shoulders and gently pushed him back. "What you need is to lay back before you kill yourself. Now lie down and stop talking. I'm gonna take care of this right now," he frowned. Looking over at Fiona and Madeline, "Try to keep him quiet," he said. Then sharply snapping the side railing up on the bed, he began to walk away.

"What is it? Where are you going?" Madeline asked.

"Nowhere, Ma'am, I've just had enough of this…," he said, inserting an especially colorful expletive. Catching himself, he immediately apologized. "Pardon my French, Ma'am, Ma'am," nodding to each woman in turn, and then stalking off toward Sam and Virgil.

Madeline turned to Fiona. "I don't think that was French, do you?"

Fiona shook her head. "No, I don't think so."

"No, me neither."

Turning their attention back to Michael, Madeline once again tucked the blanket around him and attempted to stroke his forehead. He turned his head away and an all but silent sob caught in his throat. Madeline grasped her son's hand. "Shhh…" she said, as he forced his head to look further away from them. But Madeline and Fiona could still easily see his face, and the anguish written on it was almost unbearable.

Barnsdale arrived beside Virgil and Sam just in time to hear Virgil say, _it's all about you. _"Nope, you're wrong," Barnsdale interrupted. "Right now, it's all about _Michael_," he growled. "And if you'all don't shut up, get over there, and help me calm him down, it's not gonna matter anyway. That boy's been through hell and back. The fact he's even conscious is a mystery to me. And in case you hadn't noticed," he continued his lecture, "this isn't exactly the Mayo Clinic. I don't even have a nurse. If you want that boy to live, you get your sorry butts over there, calm him down, and help me. Besides," he added, "his Mama's gonna kill us if anything happens to him."

Sam looked over at Virgil and once again punched him in the chest with a finger. "Later," he said.

"You got it, Buddy," Virgil agreed. And they walked back to Michael's side. Allowing them some privacy, Madeline and Fiona retreated over to the far wall and sat down. "Virgil," Michael gasped, trying to read his face, then immediately switching over to Sam. "Sam, I can explain," he said, desperation in his voice.

Sam's cheery voice came back. "You don't need to explain anything, Mikey. Everything is fine. We got it under control," he said looking squarely at Virgil. Virgil nodded in tentative agreement and then headed for one of the chairs next to Fiona and Madeline, purposely avoiding Michael's gaze. Sam frowned, but then wiped it from his face as he looked back at Michael. "The only thing you need to worry about right now is getting better."

By now Barnsdale had pushed over an oxygen machine and placed a breathing mask over Michael's face. "There you go. This will help," he said, adjusting it over Michael's head. Then pulling a syringe from his lab coat pocket, he uncapped it and picked up the port to Michael's IV. "This is just something to help you relax," he explained, and injected the meds into the port. "You just rest a bit. I'll be right back." Patting Michael on the shoulder, he glanced over at Sam and nodded towards the opposite wall. "Need to talk with you for a second," he said.

"Yeah, sure, doc," Sam responded. Smiling at Michael he winked in reassurance, and then walked over to speak with Barnsdale.

Taping at x-rays now illuminated on a wall display, Barnsdale commented appreciatively, "You placed the tube perfectly. And by the way, good job on the IV, too. You missed your calling, Sam."

"No, thanks," Sam shook his head. "Not me. That's something I never want to do again if I can help it."

"Yeah, I know what you mean," said Barnsdale in a manner that conveyed clearly he truly _did_ know. "Still, I'm gonna need your help. Getting the chest tube in was just the beginning."

Sam shifted uncomfortably. "What do you mean?"

"I mean just what I said," Barnsdale stated. "The chest tube was just the beginning. That boy's a mess. For starters the stab wound needs to be assessed, cleaned out, and stitched… if I can," he said, now seemingly talking to himself more than to Sam. "The fever he's sporting is no doubt due to the wound but also likely from you putting in that tube in the middle of a parking garage."

"Yeah, I was worried about that," Sam agreed. "Didn't know what else to do, though."

"You did the right thing," Barnsdale quickly assured. "In fact, you likely saved his life. But now I gotta do some clean up. Mostly I need someone to keep an eye on his vitals whilst I work." Looking Sam in the eye, Barnsdale asked, "You up for this?"

"Yeah, I'm with you," Sam said. "Just tell me what you need me to do," he said.

"Good man," Barnsdale said, clapping Sam on the back, and they returned to Michael's bedside.

"Hey, Mike, how you doing?" Barnsdale asked, checking Michael's pulse and then reaching for his stethoscope. "How you holding up?" he continued. Not really expecting an answer, he proceeded to listen to Michael's lungs, heart, and abdomen. Looking up again, he put the stethoscope away. "Feeling a little more comfortable?" he asked.

Ignoring him, Michael looked past Barnsdale to Sam. "Sam, I'm sorry," Michael began again, pulling the mask out of the way.

"Hey, don't worry about it," Sam said. "I told you. Everything is fine. You just need to get better, that's all," he said, placing Michael's mask back where it belonged. "You need to leave that there," he gently chastised, adjusting it to what looked to be a more comfortable position. "Hey, listen, Mikey," Sam continued as he fussed with the mask. "Barnsdale and I were just talking. He wants me to help him get you cleaned up. Take care of that wound. You okay with that, Buddy?"

Michael just stared at Sam, bewildered. He could think of only two scenarios that would cause Sam to blow this off so easily. The first was Virgil had not told Sam after all. This would explain why the roof was still attached to the building and Fiona wasn't straddling his chest right now trying to choke the life from him… with assistance, no doubt, from his mother. _Wait, dear, let me put my cigarette down and I'll help you get a better grip,_ he could almost hear her saying.

The second was Virgil _had_told Sam, but they all thought he was going to die so in pity were being kind to him. No. It had to be the first. Fiona would still choke him, dying or not. He almost laughed at the mental picture. It had been a long time since he laughed. A long, long time. Why humor had crept in just now, he had no idea. He vaguely supposed it was the drug Barnsdale had injected him with a few minutes prior. Either that or perhaps he really _was_ dying.

He was somewhat brought back to the here and now by fingers snapping in front of his face. "Hey, Buddy, you with me?" Sam was saying. And Michael marveled at how fast Sam could snap. _Snap, snap, snap._ Golly, he wished he could snap his fingers that fast. Absently he wondered if perhaps he mastered it someday, Sam would be proud of him. The idea of wanting Sam to be proud of him surprised him. "_Where did that come from?"_ he wondered. But was even more shocked to realize it was true. Somewhere inside him was a little boy who wanted... maybe even needed, Sam to be proud of him.

"Uh, Mikey…, you okay?" Sam's face swam in and out of focus.

_Snap, snap, snap…_There he went again. He grinned up at Sam and hoped he would do it again. He couldn't remember ever seeing such a marvelous display of skill. Dimly he realized the drug Barnsdale gave him was most definitely working. Oh well. He didn't really care anymore. The despair that had filled him moments ago was gone, replaced by an odd feeling of wonderment. Thinking back to Sam's brilliant earlier performance of snap making, Michael considered absently if Fiona might have any hidden talents. This conjured an even broader grin, causing his ears to turn a bright shade of pink.

Sam looked down at Michael and then up again at Barnsdale, who was now busy laying out an array of surgical supplies onto a sterile tray. "Whatever you gave him," Sam said, "I'll have two."


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter Ten**

Barnsdale chuckled at Sam. "It usually doesn't have this strong an effect," he said, moving over to Michael. "It's probably due more to the morphine I gave him before his x-rays. That and exhaustion," he added, but proceeded to check Michael's vitals anyway. Michael initially tried to paw away the bothersome ministrations, but quickly settled down and allowed Barnsdale's to continue. "He's fine," Barnsdale pronounced, dropping his flashlight in his pocket and hanging the stethoscope back over his neck. "I doubt it will last long at this level, though. We might as well get working while he's still out of it." Taking in Sam's disheveled appearance and bloodied clothes, he said. "You'll need to get some scrubs on first." Walking over he opened a cabinet and pulled out a shirt and string tied pants. "Heads up," he said, and tossed them to Sam.

While Sam headed into the adjacent room to change, Barnsdale turned to the rest of the group, "I'm going to have to ask you folks to leave," he said. "I want to get this wound cleaned, and it'll probably be a couple hours before I'm finished. Why don't you all go on up to the house and make yourselves at home?" he encouraged. "It'll be a sight more comfortable than those hard plastic chairs. If you want to wash up there's towels in the closet beside the bathroom. Fresh laundered. Plus there's food in the ice box and hot coffee always ready in the machine by the microwave. Just help yourselves."

"I'm happy here," Fiona said, stubbornly.

"Yeah, I thought you'd say that," Barnsdale said dryly.

Unexpectedly, Madeline stepped in. "Dear, I don't mean to be unkind," she said, "but you look terrible. I think waiting at the house instead of in this stuffy room would do us all good." Looking at Barnsdale, "You'll come get us the moment you're done?" she asked sweetly.

"Yes, Ma'am, I sure will. Promise."

"Fine, you do that, dear," Madeline smiled, but gave Barnsdale a look that clearly conveyed the unspoken, but ominous addition of, "or _else_."

Barnsdale's eyes widened and he looked around for Sam as if for a witness, but Sam was just coming back from changing into his scrubs.

"What?" he asked, perplexed as to why Barnsdale was eyeballing him.

"Nevermind," Barnsdale scowled.

Satisfied she'd made her point, Madeline walked over to her son. "See you soon," she said tenderly, and this time her look was purely that of worried mother. She stroked his check, thinking how young he looked; almost like a child laying there. And she thought to herself that he was a child; _her_ child. She was grateful he seemed to be resting peacefully, finally relaxed. Kissing his cheek she turned away, giving Fiona her space.

Fiona approached the bed and leaned close, stroking the side of Michael's face with her hand. "Michael," she whispered, and was surprised when he opened his eyes to look up at her.

"I love you, Fiona," he said simply. "I always have," he added, an honest decree from a breaking heart. His words so stunned her she literally staggered a small step back.

Overhearing, Sam looked up from what he was doing and smiled.

Fiona stood silently for a moment, and then leaned over Michael, "I love you, too," she said, quietly, but there was no response. He seemed to be asleep again. "I'll be waiting for you," she said, and kissed him softly. Quickly ridding her face of a renegade tear, she turned back to Madeline who was smiling broadly at her, tears of her own in her eyes.

"Come on," Madeline said. "Let's go get you cleaned up." Then glancing over at Virgil, she said, "and you come, too." It was not a request.

Once the group had exited the room, Barnsdale nodded to Sam, "Okay, let's get this show on the road." Attaching a blood pressure cuff, cardiac leads, and clipping an oxygen sensor over Michael's finger, Barnsdale then inserted a second IV. Michael moaned in protest but produced little other reaction. Satisfied everything was in place and with the steady reassurance from the cardiac monitor, Barnsdale began unpacking the dressing around Michael's wound, placing the soaked bandage in a nearby basin. The bleeding was still present but had nearly stopped. Michael shifted uncomfortably as the wound was disturbed. "I know that hurts," Barnsdale responded sympathetically, working as gently as he could. "Sam, get me 750 mg of Procaine," he directed. "It's over in the cabinet. The key's hanging up behind the first cupboard door."

Sam retrieved the Procaine, unwrapped a syringe and charged it with the correct dosage, handing it to Barnsdale. Mentally noting the sites that would be the most effective, Barnsdale began injecting the areas in and around the wound. Procaine had the advantage of not only numbing the injected area but would also constrict the blood vessels, reducing the bleeding while he worked.

He would have preferred putting Michael under anesthesia, but in his current condition, didn't want to risk respiratory arrest. If Barnsdale could get by without intubating him, he would much prefer it.

Michael jerked as the needle entered his flesh. Trying to ignore his patient's discomfort, Barnsdale pressed on out of necessity, inserting the needle in another selected area, and another, and another. Michael moaned and flinched, sometimes arching his body slightly in an effort to avoid the stick. All the while Sam held onto him, minimizing his movements and trying to calm him. Finally finished, Barnsdale tossed the syringe in a sharps container and checked the clock. He'd wait a few minutes before beginning. By then the area should be numb from the local and with any luck Michael would not wake up while he was working. "How's his vitals?" he asked Sam.

"Heart rate is 100, respiratory is 30, and blood pressure is 90/70. Pulse Ox is 92. Temp is 102.

"Okay, not great, but okay," he said to Sam.

Checking the surrounding skin of the wound, Barnsdale was not surprised to find it warm with red streaks on the skin nearby. A watery discharge seeped from the wound itself, heralding the infection Barnsdale already knew was present.

"Do you know if he has any drug allergies?" he asked Sam.

"No, none."

"I don't s'pose you know when he had his last tetanus?"

"That I don't know."

"No problem, I'll give him a booster just in case."

"I'm gonna start with just tryin' to irrigate the wound to get the debris out," Barnsdale fell back into his slightly southern accent. "Help me roll him on his side so I can get a pad under him." Turning him gently, Barnsdale placed a large plastic lined pad on the table under the wound site. Moving him back again, Barnsdale once again checked the clock. "Showtime."

Picking up an irrigating syringe filled with saline solution, Barnsdale began filling the wound and flushing it out. Michael stirred but Sam was able to keep him relatively still.

Barnsdale continued his work, repeatedly jetting the solution as far up into the wound as possible, hoping to rinse out any bits of wood, clothing, or even skin that may have been pushed in.

"Hurts," Michael grimaced, once again trying to move, but Sam held onto him.

"I know it does, Buddy. Almost done. How much longer, Doc?" Sam asked.

"That's it," Barnsdale said. "At least with the irrigation. It still needs to be debrided but I'm really hoping to avoid opening him up. We'll do a mechanical overnight and see how it goes. We'll just have to see."

"Umm…. Okay. Ow," Sam said, having firsthand knowledge of mechanical debridements.

"Yeah, I know, but I think it's the best route to take, all things considered," Barnsdale answered as he pressed a saline-moistened dressing into the wound. "We'll leave that be until tomorrow. Once it's dry, I'll remove it and hopefully that will do the trick. We'll put him on some heavy duty IV antibiotics and I'll get him that Tetanus booster."

"Why don't you head on up to the house and let them know everything is okay," Barnsdale said. "I just want to get some antibiotics going in him and hang another bag of blood. Don't worry. I won't leave him. I'm just going to finish up."

Meanwhile, back at the house, Madeline was just getting started. She had retrieved a pack of cigarettes from her car and was settling in for a good smoke. Fiona had opted for a shower, giving Madeline her opportunity to be alone with a very uncomfortable Virgil.

"So, do you have anything you'd like to talk about, Virgil?" Madeline asked, taking a long drag on her cigarette and blowing it his way.

"Uh, no," he stammered. "Nothing comes to mind."

"Really?" she trilled. "Because I could come up with a few topics. Like, oh, I don't know, why my son is _bleeding_ and being operated on in a goat clinic… and what you have to do with it?"

"Me? Oh, Sweet Lips, I don't have anything to do with this. It's not my fault Sam's history came back to bite him and sucked Michael in, too. And for the record, I _told_ Michael not to work with Larry."

"Dead Larry?" Sam asked, entering just in time to hear Virgil's last sentence. Swearing harshly under his breath, he looked Virgil in the eye, "No. See, he promised us," he said, pointing to Virgil. "There's no way he's working with Larry. You need to try again."

"I don't know what he promised, Sam, but I'm telling you straight up," Virgil said. "Michael is working with Larry and has been for months."

From behind them the sound of breaking glass heralded the return of Fiona. She stood in the hallway, wrapped in a large bathrobe, her uncombed hair hanging wet around her shoulders. Shards of glass and a puddle of coffee from the cup she'd obviously dropped lay at her bare feet. Standing stock still, she simply stared across the room at Sam, who mirrored back her look of utter shock and betrayal.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

"Okay. I want you to help me wrap my head around this," Sam all but spat the words. "You say he's been working with Larry for the past, what…"

"At least five or six months," Virgil filled in the blanks.

"Five or six months," Sam licked his lips and ran a hand through his hair, shifting uncomfortably, a dark look on his face. This was not happening.

Fiona simply stared out into space, trying to wrap her own mind around what she was hearing.

"So, you're telling us Michael's been working with Larry under our noses for the last six months and nobody knew about it… but _you_? How is that, Virgil? And why? 'Cause I gotta tell ya, man, I'm having some trouble with this."

"He was trying to save you, Sam."

"Yeah," Sam scowled, "exactly how is working with Larry going to save _me_?"

"Remember back in the day?"

"Virgil, I remember a lot of days," Sam said as he tried to rub the tension from his forehead. "Some of them I try real hard to forget. You want to speed up to the part where you explain this?"

"'84. East Germany. Ring a bell?" Virgil offered.

"Oh, crap."

"Yeah. That's pretty much what I said," frowned Virgil.

"I thought that was taken care of," Sam said, truly stunned.

"Yeah, I thought it was, too. Apparently not," Virgil answered back. "So-called evidence surfaced from out of nowhere. My buddies got wind of it and contacted me. I contacted Mike."

"Why didn't you contact _me_? Sam asked, his anger rising.

"Mike and I agreed the less you had to do with it the better, the idea being for you to stay as far away as possible. Mike was pretty certain if whoever was doing this got wind of you snooping around, it'd likely set off the information being released. The plan was for Mike to find out who was behind this, get his hands on the file, and make it disappear permanently. We're talking War Crimes, Sam," he said, his tone taking on an even more serious tone. "Under the context of what happened, and considering the importance of the scum bag you took out… You could face a firing squad."

"So where does Larry fit in to all this?" Sam asked. "Are you telling me that you, Michael and _Larry_ have been working together to find this file?"

"No. After I gave Mike the initial intel he went looking trying to figure out who was doing this. A few weeks later he cut me loose. He'd found the source but wouldn't tell me who. Said it was too dangerous and he would handle it. Then I found out it was Larry."

"So what is in the file?" Madeline asked. "What did you _do_, Sam? What could Larry possibly have on you that could be this important for Michael to risk…," and she looked at Fiona, "everything?"

"Oh, it's a bunch of trumped up crap," Virgil grumbled. "Short story: We were trying to extract a family of non-coms out of East Berlin. They had helped us out of a real jam when a mission we were on over there went sour. They'd have paid for that help with their lives. We had orders to leave them. State Department said it might be an embarrassment. Except…"

"…we don't leave our men behind," Sam finished the sentence. "Those people saved our butts. We weren't going to leave them to die."

"So, it was up to us to do a little creative work and take care of it ourselves," Virgil continued. "In the end, a man died. A very, very bad man.

"It was him or the family," Sam explained. "I'm not proud of what I did, but I'd do it again."

"Darn straight," Virgil concurred. "Anyway, it caused a heck of a stink, though. I called in every favor I ever had. Covered up the entire thing and it all blew over. Or so I thought."

"What happened to the family?" Madeline asked.

"They're alive and well, thanks to him," he said, nodding toward Sam. "Living in England last I heard."

"So now what?" Fiona broke in. She had cleaned up the coffee mess and found her way to the couch beside Madeline.

"So now Michael's been working with Larry supposedly on some big job Larry's planning. I don't know what it is. Heck, I don't _want_ to know. In reality Mike's been trying to figure out where the file is. Turns out it's in a lock box somewhere. Larry and some fellow nut jobs he's got working for him had the key under guard in one of Larry's apartments. Mike figured it out, found out where it was, broke in and switched the key for a dummy duplicate. I guess he didn't quite make it out clean."

"No, I guess he didn't," Madeline said dryly.

"So now Larry knows Michael's on to him?" Fiona asked.

"I don't know if Larry knows or not. The idea was to buddy up with Larry, locate and replace the key with the dummy one, and Larry'd never be the wiser. Then Mike was gonna take the real key, get the file, and get the heck out of Dodge. But," and he looked around at the weary group before him, "things didn't go exactly as planned. The good news is Mike's got the key and Larry's got the wrong one. There's no way he's gettin' in that box unless he's got that key. Too public. Too secure. That's where Larry messed up."

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps coming up the walk and onto the porch, followed by a scrapping sound from the dangling screen door being dragged across the porch floor boards. "What the heck?" came Barnsdale's puzzled voice, followed by a final thud from the door. Entering the room he wore a perplexed expression and was pointing back over his shoulder, presumably at the door.

Before he could speak, Sam interrupted him. "What are you doing over here? I thought you said you were going to stay with Mike!"

"I _was_ staying with Mike, except he wants to talk with you; wouldn't shut up until I came to get you. I can't just keep sedating him. I give up. Whatever that boy has to say to you, it can't wait; at least not according to him. You need to go hear him out before he busts. He's not going to rest until you do."

Sam glanced at Fiona who was already rising from the couch to go with him. "Give me five minutes, Fi," he said.

She looked at him for a moment and then sat back down. "Five minutes," she said.

Sam gave her a small sad nod of acknowledgement, and turning, headed out of the house and back towards Michael, brushing past Barnsdale as he left.

"Now," Barnsdale said, addressing the remainder of the group and once again pointing back over his shoulder. "Somebody want to tell me what happened to my new screen door?"

"What screen door?" Madeline asked, blowing a plume of smoke his way and smiling up at him sweetly.

Barnsdale cringed noticeably. Smiling back nervously, he decided immediately to drop the subject. "Uh, I'd better go check on Michael," he said.

"Yes," Madeline said. "You do that, dear."

Barnsdale managed another nervous smile, and excused himself from the room. "Ma'am, Ma'am," he nodded to both of the women, and executing a perfect about face, hurried back out the door toward his patient… and away from Michael's crazy scary mother.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Sam opened the door to what had now become Michael's room and entered quietly, not sure if he might finally be sleeping. Instead he found him wide awake, frowning deeply and staring at the ceiling. A look of utter despondence on his face.

"You talk to Virgil?" he asked softly without looking at Sam.

"Yeah, Mikey, I did."

There was a long pause, then finally, almost in a whisper, he said simply, "I'm so sorry, Sam," and continued to look at the ceiling, the tenuous grip he held on his emotions threadbare. He was at the end of himself. He could fight no more. _Lie_ no more!

"You should have told me, Mikey," Sam said quietly.

"I know," Michael answered, the honesty catching even himself off guard. "But at the time..." Michael stopped himself. It was just another excuse. "Sam." He tried to begin again but simply didn't know what to say. He finally added, "…I thought I was protecting you."

"You were wrong to not tell me, Mike."

"I know."

"You should have trusted me… believed in me, Mikey," Sam continued. "I can take care of myself. And I'm smart enough to know when I need help… to _ask_ for it. That's something _you_ need to learn."

"Virgil only knows part of the story, Sam," Michael sighed, finally looking at him. "_You_ only know part of the story."

"Doesn't matter," Sam said quickly, cutting him off, his voice conveying his frustration. "It doesn't matter _what_ the story is, Mikey," he said again, a little more gently. "_You betrayed my trust_."

"And mine," Fiona said, entering the room.

Their words cut into Michael's very soul. He looked back up at the ceiling, his face clouding. He was at the very brink of an ever deepening sea of raw emotion. Emotion he had no idea how to deal with. "I don't know how to fix this," he said finally. "I don't know what to do to make it better," and his voice caught in his throat. "I don't…" he stammered. "I never wanted to hurt you. Either of you. I would die for you," he said, finally looking over at them again.

"Well, you certainly proved that last part to be true," Fiona said. "Look at you, Michael. You're a mess."

"Yeah, Mikey. Here's an idea. How 'bout next time you tell us what's going on, and we let the _bad guys_ die for us instead," Sam dead panned.

"So what now," Michael asked, looking over at them, exhaustion and strain showing clearly on his face.

"I don't know, Mikey. We still need to talk …"

"Yes, we do," Fiona interrupted.

"But right now," Sam said, clearing his throat and shooting Fiona a look, "we need to take care of this mess. And we can't take care of it unless we know _what is going on_. So, and I know you're tired, Buddy," Sam said, looking at Michael, "but… once more with feeling: What's going on?"

Michael sighed and shifted uncomfortably on his bed. Lines of pain, both physical and mental, shown clearly on his face. "It turns out Larry knew I was playing him from the beginning," he said. "It was all a set up. I realize that now. He's insane, Sam."

"Oh, Michael," Fiona sighed rolling her eyes. "Are you just now figuring that out?"

"He thinks you're the reason he lost me as his partner, Sam," Michael continued. "The reason he can't get me back. He plans to take care of that problem."

"So let me get this straight," Sam said. "Larry wants you to go Dark Side but thinks in order for you to do that, he needs to get rid of me."

"Pretty much, yeah," Michael said, his eyes beginning to lose focus.

"Why not just kill me outright?"

"Not his style," Michael said, rubbing his eyes.

"Not his STYLE? The man kills three people before breakfast on any given day."

"He wants to destroy you, first," Michael explained, "Then he'll kill you," he said, and he noticed his voice now somehow seemed far away. "He hates you, Sam." It was getting harder for him to get the words out. "Blames you. …knows what a trial would do to you," Michael coughed painfully, hugging his chest.

"Okay, that's enough," Sam said gently. "We'll take it from here, Mikey. You get some rest."

"I'm sorry," he said once again, fighting the exhaustion.

"I know, buddy," Sam said. "We'll talk about it later. I know you were trying to help me. Just get some rest. We'll talk more later. I'll see you in the morning." Then looking over at Fiona, "I'm going to head on up to the house and get cleaned up a bit. You good?"

"I'm fine," Fiona answered. "I'll be here." She then walked over to Michael's side and stroked his forehead with her fingertips. "Rest now," she said gently. "Everything will be alright."

"Fi," he began, but she put her fingers to his lips.

"Shhh… It's okay. I know, remember?" And she grasped his hand and smiled. "We are so not good at this," she said. "Now sleep. You'll feel better in the morning."

He closed his eyes but the sadness remained on his face.

Fi began to pull her hand from his but he held on. "Stay with me until I fall asleep," he whispered plaintively, the exhaustion already pulling him under.

Fiona smiled. "Michael, I'm not going anywhere," she said as he drifted off. Then smiled as she saw his face relax and his breathing finally calm, evening out. "Besides," she added, thinking he was asleep, "I want to be here when you're all better so I can kick your butt." She was surprised when she noticed the faintest hint of a smile form on Michael's lips. Smiling broadly, unable to resist, Fiona leaned over and tenderly kissed those lips. Then pulling the chair closer to the bed and without letting go of his hand, she settled in for the night.

Morning dawned and Michael had, for the most part, slept through the night. Fi still sat in the chair beside his bed, dozing. A light tapping at the door brought her quickly awake, and Fiona looked up to see Madeline peeking in. "Am I interrupting anything?" she asked quietly.

"No, Madeline, of course not," Fiona whispered back, yawning and rising from the chair. "He's still sleeping. I think he had a pretty restful night."

"I wish you could say the same for yourself, dear," Madeline smiled, cupping Fiona's face in her hand. "You need some rest, dear."

"I'm fine," Fiona protested.

"No, you're not," Madeline countered. "And you'll be no good to Michael exhausted like this. Go get some sleep. I'll wait with him."

Fiona nodded, knowing Madeline was right. "Okay. But if he wakes up…"

"If he wakes up," Madeline said, "I'll tell him you were here all night and needed some sleep. Michael will understand."

Fiona again knew Madeline was right. At this point she was so tired she could barely think straight. She needed rest. And if Larry was involved, and it certainly looked like he was, there were going to be dangerous times ahead. She'd need to have all her strength and wits about her when the time came. Reluctantly Fiona gave in. Looking back over her shoulder one last time, she could see Michael was clearly still sleeping. Satisfied, she slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

As soon as the door clicked shut, Madeline walked over to her son, looked down at him and sighed. "Okay, Michael. I've been your mother too long not to know when you're faking. You want to tell me why you're pretending to still be asleep?"

Michael opened his eyes to look at his mother. "I was afraid if she knew I was awake she would stay. I wanted her to get some rest," he explained, and Madeline knew he was telling the truth.

"That was a good idea," she agreed. "You're right. I don't think she'd have left if she knew you were awake." And then she added, "You're a good friend, Michael."

Michael's face clouded immediately at the words.

Shocked, Madeline tsked at her son, leaning down and hugging his neck. "Shhhh.." she soothed. "It's okay, Michael."

"I messed up, Ma," he said, into her neck, his voice cracking. "I really messed up."

"Yes, you did, Michael," Madeline agreed, straightening. "But so does everybody else in the world. Everyone falls sometime, Michael. You just have to find it within yourself to get back up. You're strong Michael; much stronger than you think. You just have to find that strength. Let the past be the past. I know the boy I raised. The _good_ man you have become. Don't let your demons conquer you, Michael. Fight. Fight for Sam. Fight for _Fiona_. But most of all, Michael, fight for you."


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

_~Sometimes, the truth hurts. Spend time as a covert operative, and you learn to recognize vulnerability in people and situations and how to tactically exploit them. You are taught from the beginning truth is not necessarily an asset. You are trained to be expert at on the spot fabrication… no matter who you're dealing with. Above all you're trained to never let personal feelings get in the way. _

_A spy's life is about planning and execution to achieve a goal for the greater good, not about love and loyalty to family and friends, assuming you even have any. But sometimes… sometimes… if you're lucky, you find the real truth. And the truth will set you free.~_

Madeline Weston helped her son sit up and then handed him a cup of water. "Here," she said, "drink this."

He raised it to his lips, and took a small sip, his hands trembling. "I'm sorry about all this, Mom," he said weakly.

"Michael," she said, taking the cup back and sitting it down. "Saying you're sorry over and over again for the same thing, without changing… Well it sort of loses its meaning," she said, helping him to ease back down into his bed. "Do you understand?"

"Yeah, Mom. I do," he said solemnly.

"Good," she said, readjusting his blanket.

"Ma?"

"Yes, Michael?"

"I love you."

"I know you do, Sweatheart," she said, putting her hand gently to his cheek. "But it's nice to hear you say it," she smiled. "I love you, too."

The voices of Barnsdale and Sam could be heard coming down the hallway. Madeline smiled at Michael again and winked, just as the door swung open. Sam was holding a cup of coffee in his hand. "Morning, Maddie," he said, a cheery smile on his face. "Coffee in the kitchen if you want some!" and he waved the cup at her, spreading the aroma. "Made it myself."

"Thanks, Sam," Madeline said. "How can I resist? I'll check on Fiona while I'm over there. You boys play nice," she said.

"Will do, Maddie," Sam grinned.

"Michael," she said, looking past Sam. "We'll talk more later," she said, smiling, and headed out the door, closing it behind her.

"How you feeling this morning?" Barnsdale asked, walking over to the bed and flicking his pocket light across Michael's pupils. "Much pain?"

"No," Michael said.

"Uh huh," Barnsdale said doubtfully, listening to Michael's chest with his stethoscope.

"Sounds good," he said, reassuringly and then walked over to his small desk in the corner, motioning for Sam to join him.

"I'm getting ready to do this debridement," he said, his voice lowered. "I could use your help."

"Sure… okay, Doc," Sam said, but was obviously uncomfortable with the idea. Finally he spoke up. "Barnsdale, you sure you want to do this," he asked quietly, his back to Michael. "I mean. Hasn't he been through enough? This debridement thing… I had it done on a leg wound once in the field and… I gotta tell you, it was about the worst thing I've ever had done to me. Plus I was way better off at the time than he is now," Sam said, continuing to make his case. "The wound was smaller, too," he added.

"Sam, I'm not crazy about it either," Barnsdale sighed, "but I'm not sure what else to do. He oughta be in a hospital. Instead I got him here. I'm doin' a mechanical because I don't want to knock him out and risk respiratory arrest. I don't want to have to bag him and I for sure don't want to put him on this ventilator of mine that hasn't been used or checked in years. His wound needs to be debrided and this is the best way I can think to do it, given what I got to work with. If you've got a better idea, I'd love to hear it," Barnsdale said, not at all sarcastically.

"Okay. I got it, Doc. Just checking," Sam said. "I'm with you."

Barnsdale put his hand on Sam's shoulder, then walked over toward Michael. "Okay, Mike. Let's take a look at this," he said. Clicking down the bed rails, he pulled back the covers to reveal Michael's wound. The saline dressing had dried nicely and was ready to be removed. "We're going to lay you down flat, here," he explained, as he lowered the head of the bed and then began surreptitiously buckling restraints over Michael's wrists, arms, and legs.

"Is this really necessary?" Michael asked, a hint of both worry and surprise in his voice.

"Just a precaution," Barnsdale reassured.

Sam looked across at Barnsdale and frowned.

Barnsdale glanced up at Sam but kept working, buckling yet another strap.

Sam shifted his weight uncomfortably and looked at Michael. "Okay, no. It's not just a precaution," Sam blurted out, unable to continue the ruse. "This is gonna hurt. Real bad, Mikey. He's strapping you down for a reason. He's doing a debridement. That dressing he put on last night has now dried. He's gonna pull it off and with it any dead tissue or leftover debris. That's the idea anyway. The problem is it's also gonna pull away living tissue along with the bad stuff. He's strapping you down so you don't come off that table."

Michael sighed and slowly blinked his eyes, wrapping his head around what was to come.

"I'm sorry, Buddy," Sam frowned. "Thought you should know what you're in for."

"Yeah. Thanks, Sam," he said plainly and then, "Let's get this over with."

"Beginning now," Barnsdale said, suddenly sounding like a physician. "You'll feel a tugging sensation..."

"Just do it!" Michael ground out.

And Barnsdale began to slowly peel away the dressing.

Michael's head shot back, and he grunted through the hurt. He panted through his mouth trying to ride out the waves of pain. And then, blissfully, it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding, Michael let his head fall back into his pillow. It had been bad, but he'd had worse. "That wasn't too bad," he grimaced, still feeling the effects.

Barnsdale frowned. "That was just the edges of the wound, Mike. The hard part's next," he said, and began to pull the rest of the dressing from inside the wound.

Michael choked back a scream and arched on the bed, the restraints drawing tight, his face a mask of agony. "Sam!" he gasped.

"I'm here, brother," Sam said, grabbing his hand. "I got ya."

"Ahhhh…." Michael moaned, writhing against the restraints.

"Almost done," Barnsdale said. "Almost," he said again as he ever so slowly and carefully continued to pull away the dressing.

It was too much, the pain more than he could bear. "Stop," Michael gasped. "Stop!" And he choked back a sob, slamming his head back again. "Aaaaiiiigghhh….. Sam!" he cried out to his friend, desperate for rescue.

"Doc!" Sam exclaimed, anguish filling his voice.

And with one last tug, Barnsdale pulled the remainder of the dressing from deep inside the wound.

The sound of Michael's tortured scream brought Fiona and Madeline charging from the farmhouse porch where they'd just settled in with a cup of coffee. By the time they made it into the building, down the hall, and into the room, Michael was laying semi-conscious on the bed, and Barnsdale was cleaning up the bloody mess from the debridement.

"Michael!" Fiona and Madeline cried in unison.

"He's okay," Sam said, his voice shaky, belying his own distress. Clearing his throat and running a hand over his head, he said more strongly. "He's fine."

"He's right, ladies," Barnsdale agreed. "He'll be fine. We just did a debridement," he explained. "It's a rough procedure."

"Well couldn't you have at least knocked him out or given him some novocain or morphine or _something_?" Madeline exclaimed.

"Not Novocain. And Morphine wouldn't touch this, Mrs. Westen," he explained. "And I didn't want to risk knocking him out for fear of respiratory arrest. It simply had to be done, Ma'am, and there's just no easy way."

"He's right, Maddie," Sam said. "Michael understood."

"Well I don't understand!" Madeline cried. "To do something so painful to cause him to scream like that? Michael to scream? Surely you could have given him something!"

"No Ma'am. Nothing. I'm sorry," Barnsdale said sincerely.

She glared at him in disbelief and suddenly struck him across the face. "Don't you ever touch my son again," she said, her voice low and menacing. Turning she went to Michael, shoving Sam aside. "And you, his _friend_!" she snarled. "How could you let him do that to him?"

Fiona stood staring at a still visibly shaken and exhausted Sam, as a new expression spread across his face. The look of hurt, sadness, and grief was obvious. Madeline's words had cut him to the core. And in that moment Fiona realized something. Something she had never truly understood before. When Sam called Michael 'brother,' he meant it. Sam loved Michael, too. She had never really gotten that before. But now she did, and she saw Sam in a whole new light. Walking over to him she grabbed his arm and squeezed it, looking up at him in an effort to encourage and comfort, it finally dawning on her what a toll the last two days must have taken on him.

Walking over to Madeline, Fiona draped an arm over her shoulder, standing beside her as she looked down at Michael. She almost seemed to be guarding him.

Michael had his eyes closed but his lips occasionally formed silent words, peppered with the occasional grimace and the audible word, "No." It was difficult to witness. Tears fell from Madeline's face.

"Madeline," Fiona said gently. "Sam was only trying to help. You know that."

Madeline looked at her and then at Sam. "Yes. I know that," and she sniffed, pulling herself together. "Of course. I'm so sorry, Sam," and she quickly walked over to Sam and hugged him. "I didn't mean it," she said, looking up at him. "You know that. I.. I was just so upset. To hear him…," and her voice trailed off.

"Sure, Maddie," Sam said. "I understand."

Madeline then turned toward Barnsdale. "I'm sorry," she said simply. "I shouldn't have struck you. I know you were just doing your job."

"It's okay, Ma'am. I've had worse," Barnsdale said, making a mental note to have his jaw x-rayed first thing in the morning.

"Sam," Michael's voice suddenly called out, and everyone turned toward him, not expecting him to even be conscious.

"I'm here, Mikey," Sam said, going quickly to his side. "How 'ya doin'?" he asked, concern filling his voice.

"I don't ever want to do that again, Sam," Michael said softly, his voice just above a whisper. "I can't…"

"I know, Buddy. You won't have to. Promise."

"Larry. Larry will be…"

"Don't you worry about Larry," Sam chastised. "You just worry about you."

" …think I'll sleep now," Michael said, too tired to argue.

Sam nodded, "Yeah, brother. Sleep. Sam's got your back."

And Michael slept.

_**A/N: **__Okay, boys and girls. I'm going to stop here. What do you think? So far, so good? _

_crittle247 I took your review to heart and did my best to include a Michael narrative. Let me know what you think. I do read the reviews and try to bend the story to the likes and dislikes as best I can, when I can. Thank you for the suggestion._

_DedeMcG thank you so much for the review. I appreciate you coming out of lurkdom just for me! I have been trying to make my chapters a bit longer. They are, for the most part, half again as long as the earlier chapters… up from around 1,000 words to usually over 1,500. This one actually comes in at 1,850, not counting the A/N. But, still, I'll try to do better and make them even longer in the future. Thanks for the advice!_

_Beach Dove, thanks for taking the time to review. Yes, I know I need a BETA. LOL! Would you like to volunteer? I really am doing the best I can. _

_To the rest of the folks that mark this as "favorite" or put it on "story alert" etc. Please do consider also posting a review. I read them and take them to heart. If you have a request, it's a good way to let me know. So far I've specifically taken the advice of at least five reviewers suggestions and done my best to make the improvements, though not always as successfully as I'd like. I'm trying though. :0) This is only my second fic and I'm learning as I go._

_Next chapter: What would you like? More whump? More action? More story? Or…Wrap this puppy up for crying out loud, we're growing old? Let me know!_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Michael dreamt of running, and pain, and the faces of innocents he hadn't been able to save. He ran on, out of breath, and still he ran. And he dreamt of Larry. Larry Sizemore, Spy and former mentor. Dead Larry/Larry Garber, the Undead Spy and devil on Michael's shoulder.

Sixty miles away, the stuff of Michael's nightmares pulled his car in front of Madeline Westen's home and parked. The day before yesterday he'd been informed by security there'd been a break-in at one of his apartments; _The_ Apartment. Of course he knew it had been Michael. Security had reported the intruder had leapt from the second story window and gotten away. "_Classic Michael," _Larry had grinned. "_That boy's a regular Spider Man,"_ he'd thought to himself, the mental picture causing him to chuckle. Still, Michael had apparently done a heck of a lot of damage to himself, based on the trail of blood he'd left behind. Larry had felt a burst of pride at the thought Michael could be that injured and _still_ get away. "_That's my boy!" _he had thought and smiled again. But, even so, 'his boy' would need to be taught a lesson. You didn't mess with Larry Sizemore Garber and not suffer the consequences. Actually, you simply didn't live to tell about it. But Michael was different. He would be punished and then forgiven. But punished he would be.

Removing the all important key from his safe, the key Michael had obviously been after but failed to obtain, Larry had driven to the bank, went through a series of scanners, signed in, handed his key to the safe deposit box guard and… was politely declined. It was the wrong key. A close duplicate, but a dummy key all the same. Michael _had_ succeeded, but only gotten so far as getting the key, not the file. Larry knew if Michael had somehow actually been able to bluff his way to this point, he would have still had to sign the card and be duly logged in. But there was no other signature save one, and it was Larry's. Larry didn't have the file, but neither did Michael.

Oh, given time, after the bank security had checked and rechecked and rechecked again Larry's identity and ownership, they would have allowed him access. After all, people lost their keys every day. But in an above average secure facility such as this, the process would take days, and waiting was not one of Larry's strong suits. Not to mention having his identity closely examined was not exactly high on Larry's list of good ideas. So he simply smiled at the guard, acting embarrassed and saying he must have picked up the wrong key that morning. He would be back the next week or so with the correct key. It wasn't that important or urgent. Thanking the guard once again and apologizing for wasting his time, Larry had left the building. His smile fading with every step he took.

He was angry. And he didn't like feeling angry. His plan had been to release the file early. It would have been Michael's punishment for trying to steal it. Once the file was released, the man hunt for Sam Axe would begin. The pain in the butt Boy Scout would be hunted, caught, shamed, tried, and executed. Just the thought of it had produced a broad smile of anticipatory delight to Larry's face. Sam Axe had been in the picture way too long. Always, always he'd been a thorn in Larry's side. But with the release of this file, no more. Getting rid of Axe was win win. It would thrill Larry to no end while at the same time the pain of losing Axe would be Michael's perfect punishment. Then with Axe finally out of the way, Larry would be there to help Michael finally see the light. It was the perfect plan. They would become a team again. Michael Westen and Larry Sizemore! For even though Larry had successfully built a network of wealth, protection, guns, id's and everything else a successful and prosperous Assassin for Hire could want, something was still missing from his happy life. That something was Michael.

But Larry's plan had been ruined when Michael switched the key. So when Michael, along with his gun running (her only redeeming quality) girlfriend, plus Axe, and even that washed up cur Virgil seemed to have all dropped off the face of the earth at once, it was time for Larry to go to work. His men had found Michael's car, and along with it blood and more blood and what looked to be a makeshift triage. So, Larry had done the obvious and checked all the hospitals and clinics in the area and turned up absolutely nothing. He'd been to the girlfriend's, Axe's, Virgil's hovel in the swamp, and every safe house he was aware Michael had. Nothing. Now he was at Michael's mothers. It was Larry's last best hope.

Parking the car he walked up to the front door, easily jimmied the lock (tisking at Michael's lack of security for his mother), and stepped inside. Almost immediately he was surprised by a short, white haired elderly woman standing in the doorway behind him.

"Excuse me?" she chirped in a pleasant but gravelly with age voice. "Who are you? What are you doing in Madeline's house?"

"Oh, hello!" he said, smiling his grinchy smile. "You must be Mrs… Mrs…

"Reynolds," the old lady replied helpfully.

"Mrs. Reynolds! Yes, of course! Madeline has told me so much about you!" Larry lied. "I was just stopping by. I left my sun glasses the last time I was here and Madeline told me I could drop by and pick them up," he said in a smooth, convincing voice.

"Oh?" Mrs. Reynolds asked. "I don't remember seeing your car before."

"Well, uh," he feigned embarrassment, "That's because the last time I was here Madeline drove," and he winked at her slyly.

Old Mrs. Reynolds blushed. "Oh, I see," she said, her face crinkling with a knowing grin.

"By the way, do you know where she is?" he asked innocently. "We were talking on her cell phone, but you know how unreliable those things can be. She told me where she was, but I couldn't quite make it out. Do you know where she is? I was really hoping to see her again this weekend," he said, and winked again.

"Well, I really can't say," Mrs. Reynolds said. "I think she said she was going to see her son. Such a nice boy..."

"Do you know where?" he asked, attempting not to sound overly excited.

"No, I can't say I do. But I think he's with Sam. Now there's a catch!" she said, her face lighting up and eyes twinkling. "My daughter is sweet on him, you know. But let me tell you! If I were thirty years younger, oooo! I'd give him a run for his money!"

Larry smiled back at her genuinely. He really liked this old lady, even though she obviously had poor taste in men. She was a real character and fun to talk with. Too bad he'd have to kill her.

Meanwhile, sixty miles away, monitors began to blare in warning. Michael Westen had stopped breathing.

_**A/N:**__ Oh aren't I just so mean? LOL!_

_Okie dokie, thanks sooo much, everyone, for the reviews. I read each one and really appreciate you taking the time to respond and for all the great advice. I tried to incorporate it as best I could. I think the general consensus was more whump but not simply just for the sake of it, but to also advance the story and improve the pace of it. Particular thanks to Helluo Librorum and Lovedietcoke: I agree… and am trying to do better. Easier said than done, but I'm trying. I think this chapter recapped a tiny bit and brought us up to date on what Larry is thinking and what he's been up to the last couple days. Next chapter: more whump and the fate of poor old Mrs. Reynolds. I hope to also further close the gap between Not So Dead Larry and Michael, eventually leading up to their showdown in a later chapter._

_For those of you who continue to add this story as "favorite," etc. I see you and I thank you. I hope you'll consider also sending a review. Those of you who want spoilers for the next chapter, let me know. _


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Barnsdale was dozing at his desk when the alarms went off. Racing the few steps to Michael's side he checked manually for signs of respiration and found none, at least relieved to find Michael's heart still pumping. Sam arrived a mere moment later. Sleeping in the next room, he'd also heard the alarms and charged in. "Respiratory arrest," Barnsdale said, glancing up briefly as he grabbed a medical cart from the corner of the room. "Help me bag him."

With grim professionalism, Sam tilted Michael's head back while Barnsdale, using a laryngoscope with his left hand, expertly guided an endotracheal tube down Michael's windpipe with his right. Connecting it to a manual resuscitator, he nodded to Sam. "Take over."

Sam grasped the bag and began squeezing it at regular intervals, manually pumping air into Michael's lungs. "What happened," he asked grimly.

"I don't know. I think his body just got too tired. I should have seen it coming," Barnsdale groused. "This man should be in a real hospital. Not here," he scowled as he deftly and quickly began strapping Michael down.

"You think he's gonna need those?" Sam asked, surprised and worried at the same time.

"Barnsdale nodded dourly just as Michael began to stir, regaining consciousness.

"Easy, Mike," Sam said. "Just lay still."

Instead Michael's arms shot up, rattling the restraints, eyes wide but clearly unseeing, he fought against the restraints, the vent, and Sam.

"Mike! It's okay. Settle down! Mikey!" Sam exclaimed, trying to get through to him.

But Michael was not listening. He was too busy trying to push his way through a deep, dark jungle, the air hot and humid; so thick and cloying, it was difficult to breathe. Trying to draw a lungful of air he was simply unable. Fear rose as he continued to try to push his way out, but now the jungle had come to life. Vines moved to block his path, grabbing at his arms and legs, holding him back . . . holding him down! Panic engulfed him as he struggled in vain to break free. He had to breathe!

And then, suddenly, air came to him, pushing into his lungs. It was an odd, artificial feeling which did, and at the same time _didn't_, satisfy his desperate need for oxygen. He tried to take another breath, and once again was unable. He continued to fight when another breath whooshed into his lungs. Dimly he could hear his name being called and felt someone's hand on his shoulder, shaking him. _Who?_ Nothing was making sense. _Where was he? What had happened? _Another breath came.

Barnsdale pushed an aging ventilator machine over beside Michael's bed. Detaching the endotrachial tube from the manual bag, he now hooked it instead to the machine.

"I thought you said you didn't trust that thing," Sam said.

"I don't," Barnsdale frowned, "but it's all I got and you can't squeeze that bag forever."

"How did you know he'd react like this?" Sam asked.

"This man's been living on the edge for a long time. We're talking about Michael Westen…," Barnsdale's voice trailed off.

"Yeah, good point," Sam agreed.

The jungle faded and a face swam into view. _Sam?_ _Was it Sam?_ Michael couldn't be sure. He couldn't be sure of anything but the pain. It looked like "Sam" was talking to somebody, but Michael couldn't understand the words. And as if his anxiety level wasn't high enough, he could feel something in his throat. Unnatural and unsettling, he wanted to gag but couldn't. Utterly helpless, with waves of fear, confusion, and pain continually washing over him, he began to shiver uncontrollably. If he could have screamed he would have.

But then strong hands grasped his shoulders and the face swam back into view. Reality began to creep back to the edges of his mind. He was in a hospital. No… not a hospital. Confusion overwhelmed him again. And pain, always the pain. It seared through his chest with every forced breath.

"Mikey, Mike. It's Sam," the face called to him through it all. "Mike? Can you hear me? Mikey? Mike? Look at me," the voice demanded, and somehow it forced him to focus.

For Michael knew that voice. Michael trusted that voice. And Michael looked at him. Confusion and pain still shown in Michael's eyes but something else, too: Recognition. It _was _Sam, and a modicum of relief swept through Michael.

"There you go," Sam said, smiling broadly. "You with me now?"

Michael continued to stare at Sam, still trying to sort things out. Another spasm of shivers shook his body.

"You cold?" Sam asked, thinking _shock_. Grabbing a blanket from the rack under the bed, Sam opened it and pulled it up around Michael. "Here you go, partner," he smiled. "We'll get you warmed up."

Barnsdale's face also now came into view, "Michael," he said, his voice sounding far away and muted. "You have an endotrachial tube hooked to a ventilator, helping you breathe. Try not to fight it, just let it do its job," he said, not sure if Michael was even comprehending his words. "I know it doesn't feel too good," he continued, "but for now we need to leave it in. I'm going to reduce the settings to let you take a breath on your own. Let's see if that will work better for you."

Barnsdale moved to the machine, making adjustments to reduce the level of support, allowing Michael to breathe on his own, coordinating the next artificial breath with how fast Michael was initiating his own. Pulling a syringe from his pocket, Barnsdale then moved to Michael's IV port, injecting a dose of Ativan.

Once able to control his own breathing, Michael began to calm further, his eyes occasionally sliding shut in exhaustion but then starting awake again when his breath didn't come soon enough and the machine stepped in. But the drugs and the ordeal had taken their toll and this was a battle he wasn't going to win. Once again his eyes drifted closed. And the next time the machine stepped in, he barely stirred.

"That's it Mikey. Just rest," Sam encouraged, pulling the blanket further around his friend. "You're fine. You just need to rest. Sleep. I got your back," Sam assured.

And Michael finally understood. And he could finally breathe. And Sam was there, watching over him. Relief flooded through his exhausted mind and body, and at long last he relaxed, drifting into a deep, and mercifully dreamless, sleep.

"I think he's finally out," Sam said, keeping his voice low.

"Yeah," said Barnsdale, checking Michael's vitals. "Temps up. 103."

"Geez, Doc," Sam said quietly, worry in his voice.

"Yeah," Barnsdale acknowledged, loading a syringe with 400 mg of ibuprofen as he spoke. "I'll give him another 24 hours on the anti-biotics and this," he said quietly, indicating the syringe in his hand. "But if we don't see a change I'm gonna have to open him up and take care of that wound proper," he said, injecting the fever reducer into Michael's port.

Back in Miami, Larry was still considering Mrs. Reynolds demise. He was truly having trouble with the idea of killing her and it utterly perplexed him. "_Gee whiz!" _he thought. What had gotten into him? It was actually making him… What? Sad? _Wow._ He hated to be sad. It made him feel weak. And then, suddenly, looking at old Mrs. Reynolds it made him angry; angry because she was making him sad. And then he was happy again! He had worked it all out. He didn't like her anymore! He was almost gleeful! He'd have no problem killing her now! _What a relief!_ He smiled at his own genius, impressed by his brilliant logic and unparalleled reasoning skills. This was something he'd have to teach Michael. All you had to do was use your head. Everything could then be brought to a clear conclusion if you just took the time to reason it out.

His personal congratulatory party was interrupted by none other than Mrs. Reynolds. "Oh, there's my daughter," she said. "You'll have to let yourself out, dear. Good bye!" And she was out the door and half way down the steps before he could stop her. He stood in the doorway watching her go, his handgun cocked and held behind his back. She was getting in the car of an attractive woman that appeared to be in her late 30s. Meanwhile another neighbor out watering his lawn waved to them both, while another standing at her mailbox did the same. There was no chance to kill her now. Too many witnesses, not that he minded taking care of them, too. He'd just have to come back later to do it. Perhaps some sort of unfortunate explosion… For Larry's favorite solution for any failed plan was to simply kill everybody involved. It was great fun and there were never any loose ends. But sadly his fun would have to wait.

Remembering the task at hand, Larry turned and went back inside Madeline Westen's neat and tidy home. Unfortunately it reeked of cigarettes, not to mention the decor was like stepping back into the 70's. Finding nothing, he was about to leave when he noticed a pad of paper near the phone. Holding it up Larry stared at the blank top page and smiled. There was a clear indentation from handwriting. Picking up a pencil he lightly colored over the paper using the side edge of the lead. And there plainly in front of him, was an address. Obviously the one Madeline had written down when she'd received word of her boy. She was with him there now, no doubt. But soon he would be, too. He had them, now. Larry Sizemore Garber had them all.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

It was close to midnight by the time Larry and his minions rolled silently up the gravel driveway in their black SUV's. Lights off, they stopped well before reaching the house. Clouds covered a moonless sky and lightning flashed in the distance as the wind began to pick up. "Remember," Larry said, pulling on a pair of infrared goggles. "You're here to stop anyone from getting past me. That's it. This is my kill," he warned.

Nodding in acknowledgement, the men fanned out. Encircling the property, they closed in, expertly cutting off any possible routes of escape. They'd done this before.

Michael slept soundly. The ventilator hummed quietly, still doing its job, filling in any breaths that didn't come soon enough from Michael's own volition.

Sam slept uncomfortably in the chair next to Michael's bed, his chin tucked down on his chest, snoring softly. Outside the sound of thunder boomed and rain began to patter on the tin roof.

Larry and his men continued their advance. Reaching the building, Larry carefully let himself in. Slowly and cautiously he made his way deeper into the building, eventually coming to a final interior door. Smiling he clicked the safety off his gun, and eased open the door. This was just too easy.

Sam stirred as the door to the room opened slowly, waking just in time to see a shadowy figure creep quietly across the darkened room and toward Michael's hospital bed.

Raising his gun as he advanced into the room, Larry's infrared goggles made it easy for him to identify his target.

Sam reached up to switch on a light.

Larry swore under his breath and ripped off his goggles.

"Don't touch that!"

Sam stopped, his hand halfway to the light switch.

"Keep the light off," the voice warned again. "You'll wake up Michael," said Fiona.

Seventy-five miles away Larry stood in the middle of an empty room, wondering what went wrong.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Continuing to make her way through the darkened room, Fiona soundlessly crossed over to Michael's bed. "How is he," she whispered, looking at Michael's still form.

"I think a little better, actually," Sam answered, keeping his voice low. "It looks like maybe putting him on this thing really was the ticket," he said encouragingly. "How are you holding up?" he added. "I thought you were sleeping."

"I'm fine," she lied, glancing at the ventilator machine and then back again at Michael. He was still restrained, though the straps had been lengthened, allowing him to move his arms but preventing him from reaching the vent tube. He looked so… so _fragile, _she thought. And as if punctuating her thought, the ventilator _whooshed, _sending Michael another rescue breath.

"Does he need many…" her voice faltered.

"No, no. In fact that was the first one in a while," Sam assured. "Really, Fi. I think he's coming out of it."

Fiona stared at Sam, trying to gauge if he was telling her the truth.

He smiled back at her. "He's gonna be fine, Fi."

And she believed him. She was suddenly overwhelmed with how very glad she was that Sam was there. She stared at him for a moment more, trying to grasp how she had never really known him until these last few days. She'd always wondered what Michael saw in him. Now she understood. Then, without warning, she went to him. Hugging his neck she kissed his cheek. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Sure, Fi," he said gently, not certain how else to respond.

Fiona turned back to Michael and sighed. "Why don't you take a break, Sam? I'll watch him for a while," she said.

"That's okay. I'm good," Sam responded. "You go back and get some sleep."

"Sam," Fiona said, "I…," she stammered. "… I want… I _need_ to be with him for a while," she said.

"Got it," Sam answered, getting up and taking care not to make noise with his chair. "I'll be in the next room," he said. "I gotta admit," he added, "that cot in there is calling my name."

Fiona smiled and watched as Sam left, closing the door softly behind him. She walked over to the chair beside Michael's bed and eased herself down, grasping his overly warm hand in hers. "Michael," she sighed, and brought his hand to her cheek, closing her eyes.

When Barnsdale had first come over to the farmhouse to inform them Michael had stopped breathing and been put on a ventilator, her legs had nearly gone out from under her. For the sake of Madeline she had held it together. But it had been difficult. It had _all _been difficult. Now that Madeline was asleep, Fiona needed time with Michael. Needed time to calm herself and believe; to see for herself that Michael was okay. Sitting here beside him, holding his hand in hers, the simple act satisfied at least some of that need. It was little enough, but she was grateful to have it.

The minutes ticked by into an hour. The rain stopped and moonlight could be glimpsed through the skylight above when Barnsdale quietly entered the room, not at all surprised to find Fiona had taken Sam's place.

"Howdy, Ma'am," he smiled. "Just came in to check his vitals again," he said softly. Pulling out his stethoscope he listened to Michael's chest and abdomen, nodding encouragingly to Fiona as he finished. "Sounds good," he said as he placed a blood pressure cuff around Michael's arm. "BP's up, too," he added a moment later. "Now if we can just get his temperature down," he said. Reaching in his pocket he pulled out a syringe. "Ibuprofen," he explained, injecting it into Michael's port. "You know, if you want," Barnsdale began, looking at Fi who was clearly wide awake. "If you want," he continued, "you can sponge him off a bit. It's not like he couldn't use it, and it will likely help bring his fever down a little more. Plus I imagine getting cleaned up a bit might help him just plain feel better," he said.

Fiona looked at Barnsdale. "Yes, of course," she agreed, jumping at the chance to do something, _anything_ to help. She's been sitting (or rather pacing) around since their arrival, powerless to do anything; watching helplessly as Michael suffered, struggling to overcome his injuries. It was almost more than she could bear. At least this would give her an opportunity to help him in a small way. "I'd be happy to do it," she said.

"Great," Barnsdale replied. "I'll get you set up," he said, going over to the cabinets and rummaging through. Soon he was back with a plastic tub of warm water, mild soap, wash clothes and a towel. "I'll leave you to it, then," he said. "I'm going to head over to the house and grab something quick to eat. I won't be long. Sam is just next door if you need anything."

"Yes, I know," she said. "I'm sure we'll be fine. You go eat… and maybe get some rest yourself. You look like you could use it," she commented.

"Yes, Ma'am," Barnsdale said wearily. "That I could," he said, tipping his head to her as he went out the door.

Looking down at Michael, Fiona set to work. Though he had been cleaned up to some extent after they first brought him here, it had been speedy and minimal at best. Mostly it had entailed simply cleaning around the wound and surgical site, then wiping the blood from the rest of his body in search of additional injuries. Determined now to do a more careful and thorough job, Fiona picked up a washcloth and dipped it in the warm water, adding a tiny amount of soap. Gently she began wiping Michael's forehead, continuing up past his hairline, wiping away the dirt and perspiration.

Rinsing the cloth she turned back to wash the rest of his face, and found him awake and looking at her. She smiled at him, and he closed his eyes as she caressed the cloth over his eyelids and then carefully maneuvered it around the tape holding the vent in his mouth. He needed a shave, but that would have to wait. He opened his eyes again as she moved down to his neck, continuing to wash away the sweat, grime, and left over blood. Going on to wash his arms and hands, and even his fingers, she paid special attention to cleaning away the small remnants of blood caked along his cuticles and under his nails. She cringed inwardly as it dawned on her he had gripped his side for so long trying to stem the flow and ease the pain, the blood had literally stained his hand and pushed under his nails.

Realizing he was still watching, she forced herself to shake off her despair. Giving him a sly, playful look, she unfastened his hospital gown. Pulling it down to reveal his chest, she continued to look him in the eye and smiled mischievously. But then her breath caught in her throat as her eyes went to his chest, and tears immediately began to well. She thought she knew what to expect, but somehow it looked worse than she remembered. For what wasn't concealed in bandages or tubes, was now also colored in vivid yellow and purple bruising. Intermixed with these were older injuries, long ago healed and now seemingly fighting for space. She was familiar with the tracks of these previous scars. To her they had always been badges of sorts, earned from other missions, other dangers, other times when Michael had stared death in the face and dared it to take another step.

She sighed heavily, and as she did Michael reached for her, rattling the restraints, wincing from the effort. Finding her hand, he grasped it, locking eyes with her. _He_ was trying to comfort _her!_ She smiled at him and squeezed his hand. _Oh, how she loved him!_ Then composing herself she continued, lightly dragging the soapy cloth over him, cleaning as gently as she could.

Michael continued to watch; her hands so delicate and gentle against his skin, the cooling cloth bringing blissful relief to his battered frame. He basked in her ministrations, literally soaking in the comfort it brought to him, flinching only slightly as she washed his chest. He fought to stay awake, not wanting to take his eyes from her. He loved her. He loved her so much and had never really told her. He wanted to tell her now; to hold her in his arms and comfort her. Tell her he would be alright. That _everything_ would be alright. He was done being afraid, done chasing the life that used to be. He thought he knew what he wanted before, but now he realized all he wanted was standing before him. Finally the sedatives and exhaustion won out and he closed his eyes, falling into a deep and peaceful sleep.

Fiona continued on. Drying him gently with the soft towel, she pulled his gown up and fastened it back around his neck, seeing he was once again sleeping. She smiled as she noticed his features seemed more relaxed and she hoped she had brought him at least a modicum of relief. Settling back in the chair, she once again took his hand in hers, and waited for the morning.

It seemed like only a moment later Barnsdale re-entered the room, but sunlight now streamed through the skylight above, and a quick glance at the clock confirmed hours had in fact passed. It was morning!

Barnsdale nodded hello to Fiona and immediately went about checking Michael's vitals for what had to have been the hundredth time. Giving him room to work, Fiona got up and stretched. Walking over to the sink she threw some water on her face, and then turned back again just as Madeline and Sam came into the room.

"Hi Madeline," she smiled, moving across the room to greet her. "Sam," she smiled, greeting him also. "Did either of you get any sleep?" she asked.

"It looks like more than you did," Madeline said, brushing Fiona's hair back from her face. "Honey, you need to get some rest. Seriously. When is the last time you slept in a bed?"

"I'm fine, Madeline. I promise," Fiona smiled. "I'm not tired."

"Uh huh," Madeline said skeptically as she moved over towards Michael's bed. "How is he?" she asked Barnsdale, gazing down at her son.

"Better, actually," Barnsdale said. "I'll get a blood gas on him first," he said. "But if it's good, I think we can get this vent out. His temperature is down and I see he hasn't needed a rescue breath since late last night. I think he's finally turned the corner," he smiled.

Sam grinned broadly and clapped Barnsdale on the back. Then turning to Fiona, hugged her, lifting her feet from the ground. She laughed out loud and hugged him back.

Meanwhile, Madeline walked around the bed and over to Barnsdale, reaching up to him. Barnsdale recoiled instinctively, eyes wide. Smiling, Madeline once again reached for him, putting her hand behind his neck she pulled him down to her. "Thank you, _Doctor Barnsdale_" she said, and kissed him on the cheek.

"Yes, Ma'am," Barnsdale said, still afraid she might quickly change her mind and choose to once again realign his jaw. It was funny, he thought. When they arrived he had pegged Fiona as more the violent type. But Fiona, backed up by an entire armory of explosives, couldn't hold a candle to Madeline Westen when she was in Mama Mode.

"I'm going to give it a few more hours," Barnsdale restated, "but if his blood gas checks out, and I think it will, we'll pull the vent."

"Is he still unconscious?" Madeline asked.

"No. Just asleep," Barnsdale assured. "I have him lightly sedated," he explained. "But between that and his level of exhaustion, I think an elephant could be in this room and he wouldn't notice."

"Or a nine hundred pound gorilla," Sam said under his breath.

Everyone looked his way as if in question.

"Look," he continued. "I know no one wants to talk about this, but we got a situation. You know and I know that by now Larry is at least starting to catch on and figure things out. Nobody's talking about it, but it is what it is. The truth is, we're lucky he hasn't already shown up," Sam said, rubbing the back of his neck, apprehension showing on his face. "Virgil headed out earlier this morning to try and pick up some leads on him. Hopefully he'll come up with something."

"You don't think he could possibly find us out here," Madeline asked incredulously.

"I don't know, Maddie," Sam said. "I hope not. But this is Larry we're talking about. He won't stop. And as long as I'm here, you're all in danger," he said grimly. "I need to get out and leave a trail for him to follow… away from the rest of you."

"Sam, you can't," Fiona protested. "Besides, you'd be sacrificing yourself for nothing. Larry Gilmore doesn't leave loose ends. It doesn't matter what you do, he's going to have to kill us all. Producing a gun from the back of her waist band, she checked the ammo clip and then slammed it back home. "It's him or us," she said, looking at Sam.

"Alrighty then," Sam said. "I prefer it be him."

Barnsdale had watched in astonishment when Fiona pulled the gun. _Where had that come from? _he had wondered incredulously. Perhaps he had been too hasty in his previous assessment! Fiona was every bit as scary as Madeline. _The women who loved Michael Westen! _he thought, shaking his head. They were definitely a class unto themselves_. _Absently he wondered if this Larry fellow realized what he was about to tangle with.

Driving back to Miami from the previous night's fiasco, an angry Larry longed for just that opportunity. They would all die now. One by one, slowly and painfully; preferably as Michael watched. His time had been wasted. He'd been made a fool in front of his men. Larry clenched and unclenched the steering wheel, seething with anger. He would find them. And they would pay.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

Arriving home, Larry Sizemore Garber threw his keys on his desk in disgust and went straight to work. _No more messing around_, he thought to himself. Picking up the phone, he called his Head of Security aka right hand associate and all around basic sociopath. "I want the name of every doctor, pharmacists, veterinarian, school nurse, witch doctor," he paused from his rant, thinking if he'd missed anyone, and then continued. "Or anybody else who knows so much as how to put on a _band aid_ that's within a hundred mile radius of us," he seethed.

"Yes Sir!" came the quick reply. Because associate sociopaths might be crazy, anti-social narcissists, but they're not stupid. And this particular one wasn't about to incur the Wrath O' Larry just to argue he'd already checked all the local med facilities and personnel. Besides he had to admit he actually _hadn't_ checked witch doctors, veterinarians, or school nurses.

Back at the Glade Vista Veterinary and Health Clinic, Fiona had just headed over to the farmhouse for a hot shower and a cup of coffee, leaving Madeline to sit with Michael. Sam was in the outer office on the land line taking a call from Virgil.

"Tell me you're using a new cell phone, not your own," Sam grumbled.

"What? You think I'm an idiot?" Virgil asked sarcastically.

The subsequent ensuing silence was not lost on Virgil. Frowning, he continued. "Yes, it's new. I just picked it up," he said, the irritation clearly sounding in his voice, "That and eleven more; all different brands, all different companies. Happy?"

"As a clam," Sam said dryly.

The truth was Sam knew Virgil was hardly an idiot. He was, in fact, a highly competent ex-Navy Seal and a good and decent man to have on your side. Whether Sam wanted to admit it or not, in the back of his mind, he was still bothered about having been kept in the dark by Michael. Exhausted and stressed by the events of the last few days, he was now taking out his frustration on Virgil. And the realization hit him that when this was all over, he and Michael were still going to have to talk. Sam understood Michael's motives and really had forgiven him, but… This wasn't something he could just let go. Something like this couldn't happen again. However altruistic his actions had been, Michael had seriously overstepped. Eventually Michael would have to answer to Sam for his actions. What exactly that meant, even Sam didn't know. But it had to happen. Michael had stepped a little too closely to the dark side. Sam had always been the one to pull him back. This time would be no exception.

Shaking himself back to the here and now Sam forced the issue from his mind, getting back to the conversation at hand. "What can you tell me, Virgil?" he asked, his tone now wholly different, almost apologetic.

"Not much, other than Larry's been everywhere looking for Michael, including his mothers. I just talked to the old lady next door. She said Larry was in Madeline's house looking around. The old lady left before Garber did, so she doesn't know if he found anything. What do you think?"

"I think I'm surprised she's still alive."

"Yeah, me, too," he agreed. "Maybe he's slipping."

"Yeah. Not likely," Sam snorted skeptically. "Anyway, keep tracking him if you can, but don't get caught," he added. "We got enough problems."

"I hear ya," Virgil replied. "Anyway, don't worry. He's not gonna catch ol' Virgil. Not in this lifetime," and he hung up.

Sam put the phone down thinking he hoped Virgil's lifetime was as long as Virgil assumed it would be, and went back into Michael's room.

"Maddie," Sam called to her, gesturing to the corner of the room when she looked up at him. "Can I talk to you?"

"Sure, Sam. What's is it?" she asked, coming over to meet him.

"Maddie, Larry's been in your house," Sam said quietly. "You didn't by any chance leave anything there that would lead him here, did you?"

Madeline lit a cigarette. "I left something, but it won't lead him here," she said, blowing the smoke from the corner of her mouth.

"Maddie," Sam said, and he drew out her name, worry in his voice. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh calm down, Sam. You think you're the only one that knows how to play this game?" And she blew another plume of smoke, this one at the ceiling. "You have Fiona call me up and tell me Michael is hurt, hiding out in no man's land, and think I don't know to cover my tracks?" She stared at him, raising an eyebrow. "I left an address," she said simply, tapping the ash from her cigarette into a paper cup.

"You left an address?" Sam all but exploded.

"Shhhh! Keep your voice down!" Madeline ordered, glancing back toward Michael. "I didn't leave _this_ address."

"What address _did_ you leave?"

"I left the address for my friend Gwenn's house."

"Maddie…" Sam didn't know what to say, or rather how to say it. "Maddie," he began again, "You realize you've given your friend a death sentence," he said solemnly.

"Oh, Sam," Madeline rolled her eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. What do you take me for? Gwenn is visiting relatives in Germany. She won't be back for six months."

Sam shoulders sagged in relief.

"I figured if someone were really after Michael it wouldn't take them long to check my house," Madeline continued. "So, I left something to keep them busy. Gwenn's house is in the opposite direction, at least two hours away from here."

"Maddie," Sam said, "Where have you been all my life?" he grinned.

Madeline laughed and waved him off, heading out the door to retrieve another carton of cigarettes from her car. "If you're going to be in here for a while, I'm going to go have a real smoke and then head over to the house and see what I can come up with for lunch. I don't know about you, but I'm sick of living off of canned tuna and coffee."

Sam nodded and smiled. "Sounds good."

Meanwhile Barnsdale had just finished checking Michael's blood gases. The previous check had shown too low oxygen and too high carbon dioxide. He was happy to see the levels had now normalized.

Three minutes later he was in Michael's room with the good news. "Your ABG numbers are good," he said to Michael who was awake again and appearing more alert. "How about we get that thing out of your throat?" he asked. "And these," he added, unbuckling the restraints. "Don't need these anymore."

Michael nodded, blinking slowly at him, grateful to be free from the restraints. They had made him feel far too vulnerable.

"Sam, give me a hand, would ya?" Barnsdale asked.

"Sure thing, Doc."

"Get the bed. Raise him up," Barnsdale instructed, pulling a medical cart loaded with supplies over as he talked. "Relaxes his abs," he offered absently, nodding at the bed. "Will help him breathe better," he added.

"Yeah," Sam answered. He'd had firsthand experience with extubation and was well aware of the whys and wherefores of the procedure. "Got it," Sam said, raising the bed so Michael was nearly in a sitting position.

"Dial him up to a hundred," Barnsdale nodded, indicating the oxygen feed. Then donning a pair of gloves Barnsdale carefully began removing the tape that held Michael's endotracheal tube in place. "I need you to just breathe slow and deep for a minute," Barnsdale said to Michael as he began suctioning the tube.

Michael's eyes watered and he pressed his body back against the bed in a reflexive effort to avoid the procedure. Sam held a firm hand to Michael's shoulders as Barnsdale continued working. "Keep breathing, Mikey," Sam encouraged. "Slow and easy."

Michael struggled to relax, trying to slow his breathing and the pounding in his chest. "That's it," Sam said. "You're doing good. Almost done."

"Okay," Barnsdale said. "Here we go, Mike. Home stretch. I need you to take a deep breath and then cough."

Taking the deepest breath he could manage, Michael tried his best to cough. As he did, Barnsdale rapidly removed the tube.

Michael erupted into a violent coughing spasm. Wheezing, he fell into himself clutching his midsection. Sam held onto him, preventing him from rolling out of the bed. Meanwhile Barnsdale quickly slipped an O2 mask over Michael's mouth and nose. It would supply oxygen at a base pressure so Michael wouldn't need to exert much effort to breathe.

Michael's eyes watered as he grasped his stomach, continuing to cough; the resulting pain and lack of oxygen edging out his vision. He could hear and feel, but his vision had gone to black. He was on the razor's edge of passing out altogether when, slowly, his sight returned as the CPAP did its job. He was soon able to get his breathing under control and the pain subsided to an almost tolerable level.

With Sam's help, Michael lay back on his bed, trembling and pale. Looking at Sam he attempted to say something but was immediately rewarded with another round of coughing. Arching forward again he tried unsuccessfully to take some of the strain off his midsection.

"Easy now," Barnsdale said, gently guiding him back down. "No talking. Not for a while." He reached into his pocket for a syringe, "Let's get you comfortable."

"No," Michael whispered, weakly trying to bat the mask away from his face to be heard. "No more... sedatives," he gasped out, on the verge of another coughing fit.

"Its pain meds, not a sedative," Barnsdale corrected, pushing the mask back into place. "And you might think you can get by without 'em right now, but that wound of yours is gonna light you up again pretty soon," he said firmly. "You're last dose just hasn't worn all the way off yet," he warned. "Besides, getting off pain meds isn't gonna make you better faster. Just the opposite. Right now you need rest in order to heal, and your body can't do that without this," he said and he held up the syringe, staring at Michael.

"Mikey," Sam stepped in. "You need to listen to the doc. And if not to him, listen to me. Take the meds."

Michael searched Sam's eyes. There was no give in them.

"Trust me, Mike," Sam said.

It hurt with every rise and fall of his chest, not to mention his throat felt like it had been turned to raw hamburger. In fact his entire body felt like he had just gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson on steroids.

Looking back at Barnsdale Michael nodded slightly, temporarily conceding to the pain, and willing himself to trust Sam's judgment over his own.

"Good man," Barnsdale said, easing the cap off the syringe and tapping out the air bubbles. "This is Demerol," he continued, injecting the drug into Michael's port. "Not nearly as sedating as Morphine or Vistaril," he clarified, hoping to placate him further.

As the drug began to take effect, Michael's heart rate slowed and his breathing steadied. His eyelids drooped a bit, and he relaxed back into his pillows. It was good to be rid of the majority of the pain, and his head did feel at least marginally clearer. Still, the ordeal of the day had sapped what little strength he had. Combined with the pain killers, sedatives or not, he quickly surrendered to exhaustion and once again fell asleep.

Sam pulled the covers up around Michael, and rested a hand briefly on his friend's shoulder. He watched him for a moment, making sure he was breathing normally, then reached behind himself and pulled his gun from the holster concealed in his waistband. Quietly checking the clip he resumed vigil in the chair beside Michael's bed.

Back in Miami, Larry Sizemore Garber began to go through the alphabetized list of names that had just been placed on his desk. It didn't take long to get to one he recognized. _Bowler Barnsdale_. He read it over again, saying it out loud, savoring the sound of it. And an evil grinchy grin bloomed anew on his face.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

Barnsdale came back a few hours later to check on Michael. "How's he doing?"

"Still asleep," Sam said, easing his gun out of sight.

"Good," Barnsdale said. "Glad he's getting some rest. When he wakes up let me know. I'm gonna pull the chest tube."

"Geez, Doc," Sam protested, "Hasn't he had enough for one day?"

"I'm giving him a few hours to settle down after the vent," Barnsdale explained. "But it's been four days since you put that chest tube in. It needs to come out," he said. "In fact I plan on pulling most everything but his I.V. I'll switch that out for a fresh one, but pretty much everything else goes. I want him up and walkin' by tomorrow morning."

"Sounds good," Michael rasped through his mask, surprising them both.

"Hey, Mikey! How you feelin', Buddy?" Sam asked, astounded to see him awake.

"Fine," he said, reaching up and moving the CPAP mask out of the way.

Sam frowned at him. "Do you _ever_ listen?" he chastised, quickly putting the mask back in place again. "Doc says you gotta leave that on."

Michael glared at him. Looking back at Barnsdale, "When… can I get rid… of this?" he asked, his hoarse voice halting and muffled through the mask.

"Oh yeah," said Sam. "That's a great idea. You're wheezin' like my grandma going up six flights of stairs."

"Sam's right," Barnsdale cut in. "That's gonna have to stay for awhile," he said, indicating the CPAP. "But the chest tube… we can take care of that now. The monitor leads and the Foley we'll get rid of in the morning."

Michael held up his arm still attached to the IV drip and raised his eyebrows as if in question.

"I'll switch it out with a new one, but you'll have to keep it a few more days. Sorry," Barnsdale sympathized. "I still want you on intravenous fluids and antibiotics."

Michael let his arm drop.

"If your temperature stays down, we'll see. In the mean time, we can pull that chest tube if you're ready."

"Definitely ready," Michael said, still struggling to speak past the offending mask.

"Okay," Barnsdale said, "A couple of things. First of all, this is easy. There's nothing to it, so don't worry about it. It's no big deal, especially compared to what you've already been through," he said, getting to work. "I'm gonna loosen this suture," he said, more to himself than anyone, tugging at the stitch.

Michael winced marginally.

"Done," Barnsdale said, and moved on to clamp off the chest tube and disconnect the suction system. That finished he took hold of Michael's arm and guided it up behind his head, "Let's get your arm up here out of the way," he said. "Sam, you wanna just help him keep that up there?" he asked.

Sam nodded and grasped Michael's wrist with one hand, then used his other to place pressure on the crook of Michael's arm, effectively pinning it down.

The constant beep from Michael's heart monitor suddenly grew faster, increasing in tempo.

"Steady, Mikey," Sam said. "Like the Doc said, easy peasy. Just try to relax," he soothed, all the while giving Barnsdale a dubious look.

Barnsdale frowned back in response and continued on. "Okay, Mike, when I tell you, I want you to take a breath and hold it. You ready?"

Michael nodded, his monitor once again picking up the pace, once again betraying his rising anxiety. He was really beginning to hate that machine.

"Now," Barnsdale said.

Michael took a shaky breath.

Barnsdale grasped the tube and pulled it from Michael's chest. Quickly retying the suture, he applied a dressing and taped it down. "That's it," Barnsdale said, "We're done. What'd I tell you," he smiled, looking up at them both. "Easy."

Sam helped Michael gingerly lower his arm. Barnsdale hadn't lied. It had really been nothing. Just an uncomfortable tug and it had been over. The rhythm of the heart monitor noticeably slowed.

"Good job, Doc," Sam smiled.

"Yeah. We'll have to get some pictures to make sure everything's good, but I've got no worries about it," Barnsdale assured. "I'll go fire up the machine so we can just be done with it. Sam, you want to switch out his IV? " he asked, and headed to his radiology room before Sam could protest.

"Uh, sure," Sam said as he watched the door swing shut behind Barnsdale, not at all happy with his assignment. "I hate IV's," he groused under his breath.

"Yeah," frowned Michael, "I'm not much …on them either." And the beep of his heart monitor rose once again.

"Hey, sorry, brother," Sam apologized, "Did I say that out loud?" he asked, moving off to get the supplies he'd need. Making his way back with an IV kit in hand, he couldn't help but hear Michael's heart monitor once again speed up a notch.

"Geez, Mikey," Sam said. "Are you _trying_ to make me feel bad?"

"Sorry," Michael said, looking away and making a concerted effort to slow his heart rate. It went up.

Sam sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. Gingerly he removed the old IV catheter from Michael's arm, cleaned the area with alcohol, and taped a piece of gauze over the site. "Okay, here we go," he said, frowning, and began his search for another good vein.

Back in Miami, Larry Sizemore Garber was reformulating his plan. It was basically the same as the old one except with better Intel. This time he'd be more patient, more careful. There would be no mistakes. He'd send his best man in to case the place and report back. And this time the operation would go perfectly …and slowly, for he planned to savor his victory. And Michael? Michael _would_ be taught a lesson. Whether it be his final one would be up to Michael.

It was too bad things had gone so far… had come down to this. After all, Michael was his protégé'. He'd mentored him, taught him everything he knew. But sadly Michael was proving to be simply too much of a softie. This basic flaw that he'd somehow been able to overlook in the past, now only sickened him. Larry frowned at the thought. It was truly a pity, for otherwise the boy had such potential.

Sighing, Larry shook his head. In the end, if Michael chose the wrong side, he would not be above Larry Garber justice. No. If the worst happened, he would end Michael right along with the rest of the chuckleheads Michael now called friends. But Michael would die last. …After being made to watch the others go first, of course. It would be wonderful deciding who would go first and who would go last. That would be a tough but delicious decision to make. Just thinking of it now delighted him. After all, Larry thought to himself, after all this trouble, he had to have _some_ fun.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

By now Sam was on the third stick in his attempt at starting Michael's new IV line. He was having serious difficulties focusing, and the fact his hand was shaking wasn't helping matters. _Think airplane landing, think airplane landing,_ he chanted as he tried again to get the angle of the needle just right.

"Sam!" Michael yelled, ripping off his mask with his free hand. "_LAND_ the d**m _plane_!" he grimaced. "Aaagghhh!" he groaned as the needle burrowed deep but once again missed its mark.

"Sorry, Brother, I'm trying," Sam said, blinking his eyes to clear his vision. He was past the point of exhaustion and was now functioning on will power alone. Looking back up at Michael, he scowled, "Put your mask back on!"

"Saaaammm," Michael growled, the heart monitor speeding.

"Hey, why don't we just turn this baby off for a minute?" Sam offered, pulling the plug on the machine and rolling his eyes with relief. His head was pounding, and listening to the shrill beeps rise in tempo with every attempt had driven him to the point of insanity.

"Havin' some trouble?" Barnsdale asked, re-entering the room.

"Oh, hey, no. We're havin' _fun_," Sam chuckled sarcastically. "Yeah, we're just having a _big_ time!" he said, throwing the catheter down on the tray. "Look," he snapped, "You know I hate these things. I can't get this started, and Mikey here is gonna crawl through the roof if I stick this spike in him one more time," he said, holding up the large gauge needle. "How 'bout _you_ give it a whirl?"

"What happened to the monitor? Why isn't it on?" Barnsdale asked, checking the machine.

"Cause I was gettin' tired of listening to Flight of the Bumblebee," Sam shot back.

"Sam, when's the last time you slept?" Barnsdale asked, stepping in to take over.

"I don't know," he mumbled. "I slept in the chair for awhile."

"Uh huh," Barnsdale said. "Got a headache?" he asked calmly as he removed the long needle and catheter from a new IV kit.

"Oh yeah."

"Uh huh," Barnsdale said again, grasping Michael's hand and rotating it to expose the underside of his wrist. Slapping it gently a few times he spied what he was searching for. "There," he said to no one in particular, swabbed the area with alcohol, and in one fluid motion expertly drove the needle home. Michael flinched as it sunk into his vein. "Easy," Barnsdale soothed, removing the needle and advancing the catheter. Taping it in place he connected the line, "Done."

Sam shook his head. "How'd you do that so stinkin' fast?" he marveled.

"Practice," Barnsdale said. "Too much practice." Then looking at Michael, "How's that feel?" he asked.

"Greeeeaaat," Michael grimaced, then, "Thanks, doc," he added more sincerely.

"No problem," Barnsdale winked and looked back at Sam. "So how's your vision? Any flashin' lights?" he asked, pulling out his pen light and flicking the narrow beam across Sam's pupils.

Sam jerked his head away, clamping his eyes shut. "Well, yeah, _now_!" he said. "Geez, doc!"

"So what about the cot?" Barnsdale asked, motioning over his shoulder to the room next door. "I thought you were using it."

"Yeah, I tried but... I dunno. I guess I got a lot on my mind. You know, too much to do; even more to think about."

"Uh huh."

"Oh for crying out loud!" Sam exclaimed. "Would you stop saying that?"

"Uh-huh,"Barnsdale said again, crossing his arms in front of himself.

Sam rolled his eyes and threw up his hands.

"So… you're tellin' me in four days you've…. What? Slept a few hours in a chair?" Barnsdale said evenly, ignoring Sam's rising temper.

"Whatever, Doc. I'm fine. I don't have time to sleep anyway," Sam scoffed. "Somebody needs to watch over Michael, and, _oh by the way_, Larry is still out there!"

"I can do that," Fiona said, standing in the doorway. "Go get some rest, Sam. I can watch over Michael. And we all know Larry is still out there. We'll take care of that problem when it arrives," she said, entering the room.

"Nobody needs to …watch over me," Michael protested, "And you _really_… should rest, Sam."

"Yeah. You _really_ should put your mask back on," Sam said, punching a finger at Michael.

"Sam, go sit down, I'll give you something," Barnsdale said. "You have a migraine and you're exhausted."

"I'm fine," Sam snorted.

"You're not fine," the entire group said in unison.

Sam pointed a finger at Michael and glared.

"Mask … got it..," Michael sighed.

_Spy or Special Forces Covert Operative… it doesn't matter. You get used to little sleep and a lot of accountability. The bottom line is no matter how many people surround you, it is ultimately you and you alone who is responsible; the one who must orchestrate every move to make the operation successful. It is difficult enough with a fully trained Seal Team. Try to accomplish the same with friends, some of which are civilians, and add to that an injured colleague and _you've_ got a problem. It's like trying to herd cats. It's stressful, exhausting, and there's likely going to be hairballs along the way._

Barnsdale approached Sam, a syringe in his hand.

"What's that?" Sam asked, giving Barnsdale a hairy eyeball.

"Just something to help you relax," Barnsdale explained. "You'll get a good eight hours sleep with this, and it will likely take care of that migraine you're working on, too.

"I don't think so, Doc," Sam said.

"Let me be the judge…"

"No dice, Doc. Too much going on."

"I really think…" Barnsdale began again, but the back and forth was suddenly interrupted by Fiona.

"Oh for heaven's sake," she sighed, and in one fluid motion grabbed the syringe and jammed the needle into Sam's arm, quickly injecting the contents. "There," she said, "Discussion over."

"Ow! Hey! What the? I can't believe you just did that," Sam roared.

"Oh, I can," said Michael.

"Mask!" Sam bellowed, but then staggered a bit. "Whoa."

"The good stuff," Michael smiled knowingly.

"The good stuff," Barnsdale agreed, grabbing Sam by the arm and leading him into the next room. Laying him on the cot he pulled off his shoes and draped the blanket over him. "Sleep," he ordered. And walking out of the room turned off the lights.

And Sam slept.

Returning to Michael's room Barnsdale clicked the brakes off Michael's bed. "Sam'll be out for a while," he said, motioning back to the adjacent room. "Meanwhile we'll get this x-ray taken care of. Be right back, Ma'am," he said, and backing through the door he wheeled Michael toward the radiology room.

Fiona stood up and stretched, then stole a look inside the other room where Sam now slept. Entering she approached the cot and smiled. He was sound asleep. She pulled the covers up closer around him and then picked up his shoes and stored them neatly beside the bed. Pulling a chair from the corner of the room, she sat beside him while waiting for Michael to return.

Like everyone else she had assumed Sam had taken breaks, slept, eaten. But apparently that had not been the case. She was glad he was finally getting some rest, and was truly astounded that she now actually cared. What a difference the last few days had made.

Hearing the bed rattling lightly down the hallway, she returned to Michael's room just as Barnsdale reentered through the other door with Michael.

"Everything's lookin' good," he said cheerily, once again locking the bed wheels in place. "I'm going to head on over to the house if you're going to be here for a while."

"I'll be here," she said. "Let me know if you get any calls from Virgil."

"Will do," he said, closing the door behind him.

Fi looked over at Michael and made her way over to his bedside. "So," she said, the slightest hint of nervousness in her voice. "Since you're awake and feeling much better, Michael," she paused for a moment, "I thought we could talk."

"About what, Fi?" he asked innocently. But he already knew, as the acceleration of the heart monitor readily attested.

"_Us_, Michael. I want to talk about _us_."

As the heart monitor launched into a hearty rendition of Secretariat on the home stretch, Michael gave Fiona his best fake smile. "Can we turn this off first?" he asked politely, nodding at the monitor and upping his smile.

"Oh no, I don't think so, Michael," Fiona said, a lilt to her voice. She could play this game, too. "Barnsdale said you have to leave it on. Besides, Michael, I rather like it," she said. "Why it's almost like… Michael, it's almost like a lie detector!"

He swallowed involuntarily and felt his smile slip. He covered by opting for more teeth. This was his old standby smile. He'd used it first at age three when coaxed by his mother for the annual Christmas picture. "Show me how the shark smiles, Michael!" she had chirped, and he'd dutifully shown his teeth for the camera. He'd been practicing and using that same smile ever since. It had served him well. Until now.

"Don't look at me with that insipid smile of yours, Michael," Fiona snapped, the playfulness leaving her voice. "It reminds me of that stupid shark in Jaws."

"Bruce," Michael said, his voice barely audible.

"What?"

"Bruce," he said again, and he coughed a bit. "The name of the shark… I think they called him, Bruce," he answered. He sounded tired, defeated.

"I don't care what the shark's name was, Michael!" Fiona nearly shouted.

Michael's practiced smile faded and he sighed. _Here comes goodbye,_ he thought and steeled himself for the inevitable.

Back in Miami, Larry impatiently awaited the return of his number one minion. He'd sent him to scout the location of Barnsdale's clinic and bring back detailed information. Said minion had been gone at least three hours, so Larry assumed he had arrived by now.

And arrived he had. Minion Number One crept on his belly through the field toward the farm house. Slithering his way across the sandy pasture he stopped at the fence that edged the property and peered through its weathered wooden boards. There was a large modern looking barn-type building directly in front of him and an aging, run down farmhouse a few hundred feet to the right. He noted what was clearly a motion activated light high above the doorway of the out building and another mounted on the side of the farmhouse porch.

Pulling out his cell phone to take pictures, he was just in time to see a figure emerge from the barn and head toward the main house. The man was wearing scrubs and even from this distance Minion Number One could tell this was one big dude. He snapped a picture. This had to be Barnsdale.

Smiling happily, Minion Number One slunk off to take more pictures from other angles, taking note of approximate distances, covers, and defensibility of the location. _This is going to be a cake walk,_ he thought. It was his last. Tripping a wire placed earlier by Fiona, Minion Number One instantly became a fraction of his old whole self.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

Inside the clinic Fiona and Michael heard the explosion. Shoving a gun in Michael's hand, Fiona hit the lights, quickly locked the door behind her, and raced to the outside door. Peering out she saw Barnsdale kneeling beside a bloody lump in the grass, more or less near where she'd rigged a claymore the day before.

Sam appeared beside her, groggy but gun in hand. "Well, I guess they found us," he said.

"I'd say that's an accurate assessment," she frowned, as they walked over to where Barnsdale was now standing. "I trust this isn't one of your customers?" Fiona asked.

Barnsdale looked at her, trying to gauge if she were serious or not. "No, I closed the place the day after you got here. The gate at the end of the driveway is up and locked. Nobody has any reason to be coming in here… especially not through my cow pasture."

"Good," she said.

"I'll check the perimeter… make sure nobody else is out there," Sam said. "My guess is this guy's just a scout though, or we'd all be dead by now."

"_I'll_ check the perimeter," Fiona corrected. "You go back with Michael and let him know what's going on. You can barely stand, Sam."

Sam nodded. He knew the drugs were still heavy in his system. This was not the time to make mistakes. If he missed something it could be disastrous. Shakily he turned and shuffled back into the building, leaving Fiona to deal with the current situation. She was more than capable, certainly more so than he was at the moment.

Approaching Michael's door he called out from several feet away, "Mike, its Sam. Comin' in, Buddy." Arriving at the door he found it locked. He called out again.

No answer.

"Okay. Just me. Opening the door," he said again loudly as he tiredly picked the lock. "Don't shoot me, Brother. Just ol' Sammy Boy coming in to check on his buddy." There was still no answer, but he really didn't expect one. The lock clicked and Sam pushed the door slowly open. "Coming in," he said, holding his hands out and to his side.

The room was dark. Coming in from the brightly lit hallway, Sam could see nothing. On the other hand, he was completely silhouetted in the door way, easily seen by anyone within the room.

"Hittin' the lights," Sam said, and slowly reached over and flipped them on.

He was greeted by the sight of a gun pointed directly at him, the face behind it cold, hard, and deadly.

"What happened," Michael asked, still pointing the gun, but now sweeping the area beyond Sam.

"It's clear, Mike," Sam said, his voice tired. "You can put the gun away." Coming in and easing into the chair beside the bed he looked over at Michael and frowned. "Okay, I'm just not gonna ask where the mask is."

Still sweeping the area for potential danger, Michael finally relaxed, un-cocked the gun and flipped the safety back on. "What happened?" he asked again. And then worry washed over his face. "Where's Fi?"

"She's fine. She's checking the perimeter," Sam answered. "You okay?"

"I'm fine, Sam," and he paused for breath. "Just tell me what's going on."

Sam looked at him dubiously. "Uh, yeah, _fine_. Uh huh. Anyway, it looks like one of Larry's guys had a close encounter with one of Fiona's toys," Sam said wearily, rubbing his eyes and leaning his head back. "He's currently spread all over the cow pasture."

"So they've found us."

"Yup," he said, massaging the bridge of his nose.

"Sam, you need to sleep."

"Yeah," Sam said. "I'll hang on a little while longer until Fi gets back. Don't want you fillin' anyone full of holes if they come through the door wrong," he grinned and reached for the gun still held in Michael's hand.

Michael handed it over and sunk down into his bed. The few minutes of heightened awareness and tension had sapped his strength. "Thanks, Sam. Sorry …about that." He frowned at his breathlessness, sick of having to make a conscious effort to manage breathing and talking at the same time. Reluctantly he reached over and put the mask back on, noting Sam's unconcealed approval. "Anyway," he said through the mask. "Sorry."

"Hey, no problem, Brother. I'd have done the same thing. In fact I would have been disappointed if you'd let me just waltz in here. You did good."

"It was Fi. She gave me her gun, hit the lights and locked the door."

"She's a keeper, Mikey," Sam grinned.

Michael's heart sank at the words, sadness spreading across his face.

"Oh, don't tell me," Sam groaned. "You two…," and he shook his head.

"She's had enough, Sam," he said. "Of me, this life…" He paused and then sighed. "She's leaving."

"Who's leaving?" Fiona asked, standing in the doorway, sawed off shotgun in hand, ammo belt looped over her shoulder. Her hair was tousled and had bits of vegetation peppered throughout.

She was the most beautiful thing Michael had ever seen. And his heart sank even lower.

"Who's leaving?" Fiona demanded again.

"That would be me," Sam said, climbing out of the chair. "I think I'm going to go take myself a little nappy while you two… do whatever it is you do," and he shuffled tiredly toward the door, passing Fiona on the way. Taking in her accessories he asked in astonishment, "Where'd you _get_ this stuff?" then added, "Never mind. I don't even want to know." He didn't expect or even want an answer. He just wanted to sleep. "Perimeter clear?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "There was just the one. He had a cell phone but there's no reception out here anyway. We have some time."

"Good," he said, handing her back the gun she'd given Michael, and continued to his cot. He knew he should take the time to get a bigger picture, but he trusted Fiona. The exhaustion and the meds were pulling him down. It was lay down or fall down time. He headed for his cot and closed the door behind him, leaving Fiona and Michael to themselves.

"So are you going to answer me?" Fiona asked, walking across the room to Michael.

The beeps from Michael's monitor responded immediately.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Michael," she sighed, and reaching down yanked the plug.

"Thank you," he said, sighing with relief.

"Still waiting, Michael," Fiona said, crossing her arms.

Closing his eyes in defeat, he answered her. "I just…" he hesitated. "I just already know what you're going to say, Fi."

"You know what I'm going to say?" she mocked. "Michael, _I _don't know what I'm going to say."

He ignored her words, and pushed on while he still had the courage. "You should go," he said softly. "Go before Larry gets here. I understand."

"You understand what?" she asked, and there was anger in her voice now.

She paced as she spoke, her eyes flashing with anger, and Michael took in every movement, every sound, every word from her. He watched her hair sliding off her shoulder, wisps of grass still tangled in it. She had taken off the gun belt and laid down the shotgun. There was a red mark on her shoulder where the heavy belt had dug into her skin and he frowned at the mark, wishing to kiss it away. He could smell her. Her scent was that of gun powder, of outside, of a slight hint of flowers, maybe Jasmine… probably from her shampoo. Her movements were graceful. She could have been a dancer…

"Michael, is this what you want? You want me to leave?"

Her words snapped him back. "No. Fi. I…," and he stopped. "Isn't that what you want?"

"No, Michael. It's not what I want. It has never been what I wanted. What I want, Michael, is _you_." And she paused and looked at him. "And what do _you_ want, Michael?" she asked, her voice softer. "To catch the people who burned you? To get your old life back? What is it that you want the most?"

"I want you to be happy, Fi…"

"Really, Michael? That's what you want the most? For me to be happy?

"Yes."

"Well you're doing a crappy job of it!" she snapped. "If all you want is for me to be happy, then why won't you _give_ me my _happiness_?

"You need more than I'm able to give, Fi."

"I only need your love, Michael," she pleaded. "That's all I've ever needed or wanted from you." And then softly, tentatively, "Is it that I'm not good enough?" There, she finally said it. She'd voiced her long held fear. Tears welled in her eyes. "Am I just another asset? A gun running Leprechaun you choose to sleep with on occasion while waiting for someone better?" her voice rose.

"No, Fi, no. It's not like that," he said, pulling the mask away again. "No one could make me happier than you. I just don't think… that's good enough. You deserve more, Fi."

"That's garbage," Fiona shot back.

"You'd be in danger, Fi," Michael continued, his voice soft, sad. "Always in danger. Because of me."

"You know, Michael," Fi sighed. "For a spy, you aren't very bright. In case you haven't noticed, I can take care of myself."

"What kind of a life could I give you? Give our children?"

And the last sentence stopped her in her tracks. "Children?" she asked, shocked, and then smiled broadly. "Michael, you've really thought about this."

"Yeah, Fi. I've thought about this. I've thought about this a lot."

"And?"

"And I wanted to tell you I was done chasing a life that used to be. That what I want… _all_ I want… is standing in front of me."

"Michael…"

"But what I want and what is right are two different things. I can't lose you, Fi. Not like that."

"How dare you!" she growled at him, having to hold back the sudden urge to strike him. "How dare you decide for me what is right. What is best! Michael, I'd rather have two minutes with you than a lifetime without." Then her tone softened and her voice filled with emotion. "Don't you know, Michael? Can't you see? The only way you're going to lose me is if you make me leave. Make me _stay_, Michael. Tell me you love me and I'll never, ever leave."

He stared at her for a long time, torn between heart and reason. Finally looking in her eyes he spoke. And from his lips he breathed her name, "Fiona" he whispered. "I love you."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," came Barnsdale's loud, gruff voice. "I'm glad you two finally got that straight." The big man had entered the room and they hadn't even noticed. "But we got bigger problems," he continued. "Not the least of which is smeared all over my front lawn!"


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Not So Dead Larry sat in his office and glanced at the clock on the wall. It was 8:30 in the morning and Minion Number One was long overdue. Assuming the obvious, Larry rose from his desk, opened the door and gestured to the guard posted just outside. "You've been promoted!" Larry grinned, slapping Minion Number Two on the back. Minion Number Two did not return the grin.

At the clinic Barnsdale had just finished disconnecting an assortment of medical monitors, leads, and catheters that had all but kept Michael hostage the last several days. "How'd you sleep last night?" he asked.

"Okay. I'm glad to be rid of all this. Especially the mask."

"Yeah, we'll have to see how that goes," Barnsdale said. "Anyway, how 'bout we get you settin' up for a while?" And helped Michael to slide his legs over the side of the bed and sit up.

Michael immediately reeled from the dizziness that greeted the ascent. Gripping the edge of the bed, he waited for the room to right itself.

"Easy," Barnsdale said, grasping his arm tightly.

"I'm fine," Michael said.

"Yeah," Barnsdale said dryly.

Michael smiled his shark smile and slowly released the edge of the bed. "Yup," he said, as things finally stopped tilting. "Got it. I'm good," he gritted out.

"Uh-huh," Barnsdale grunted. "You wanna try settin' in the chair?"

Michael nodded. "Yeah," and then added, "When can I get a shower?"

"Chair first. We'll see how you do."

"Where's Fi?"

"Let's _hope_ she's out cleanin' up the mess on my lawn," Barnsdale groused as he helped Michael move from the bed. "You good?" he asked, settling him into the chair. "Much pain? Dizzy?"

"I'm fine," Michael lied, watching the room swim yet again, closing his eyes against the pain and dizziness. Sighing he slumped tiredly into the lumpy chair cushion, exhausted from the effort of simply moving from the bed to the chair. In fact, Barnsdale had done most of the work, having all but lifted him into the chair. He felt weak, tired, and discouraged, and old beyond his years. "Where's Fiona?" he asked again.

"I don't know where she is," Barnsdale answered. "I'll go find her for you if you think you can keep upright by yourself for a minute. And by the way, your Mama nearly blew my head off with that shotgun of hers! I tried to go in the house after the uh… after the uh…"

"Incident?" Michael offered.

"Yeah," Barnsdale huffed. "_Incident_. Whatever. Anyway, I walk up my own front porch steps and kaBLAM! There goes the rest of what's left of my new screen door! Not to mention my nerves. I'm lucky I still have a head on my shoulders! Where'd she get that thang, anyway?"

Michael shrugged. _Who knew?_ All his life he'd marveled at how his mother could produce unlikely items at an instants notice. She could likely come up with a Grand Piano from her back pocket if asked. _If_ she wanted to. The shot gun was nothing. She probably kept it tucked in her coin purse.

His thoughts were interrupted by Sam and Fiona entering the room. "Hey, Fi. Hey, Sam," he greeted them.

"Well, look who's out of bed!" Sam exclaimed.

"I was about to say the same thing," Michael said. "Did you finally get some sleep?"

"Yeah, yeah. I got some sleep. Thanks to Nurse Ratchet here," he said, glancing at Fiona. "Even Larry's exploding apprentice couldn't keep me awake."

"You needed sleep," Fiona said, her voice matter o' fact. "I solved the problem. Say thank you."

"Oh, I'll thank you alright," Sam said. "You can be sure of it, Sister. Someday when you're least expecting…"

Fiona smiled. "Oh, really? Because …"

"What's our status, Sam?" Michael interrupted before the conversation turned into another Fiona/Sam one-upmanship.

"The status is, you don't need to know the dang status," Barnsdale interrupted for himself. "All you need is rest. I'm sure Fiona and Sam can handle everything else. And speakin' of handling things," he pause and glared at them, "Michael's _mama _nearly blew my head off with a shotgun on my own dang porch!" he fumed. "And what about what's spread all over my front lawn? What are y'all plannin' to do about it? "Cause I gotta tell you. I'm not cleanin' that mess up!"

"I'll take care of it," Sam sighed and left to go disarm Madeline and perhaps find a garden hose to tidy up the lawn.

"And what about my cows?" Barnsdale stormed after Sam. "I won't get milk for a week!"

"Look, I can't do anything about your dumb cows. Geez! Besides, I didn't blow anybody up, _she_ did! Why don't you go yell at her for awhile?"

Fiona and Michael could still hear Barnsdale and Sam arguing as they traveled down the hallway and out the building. The final door slammed, and they were left in silence.

"So… then… _not_ leaving?" Michael said, looking straight ahead.

"No, Michael. I'm not leaving. At least not until after you're well enough for me to kick your butt." And she smiled.

He looked up at her and smiled back. "How about you help me to the shower then?"

She looked him over. "I don't know, Michael. Did Barnsdale say you could?"

"I'm unhooked, aren't I?"

Fiona frowned suspiciously. "I think we better wait until he gets back. You look exhausted."

"Fi, I'm fine. I'd just really like to get a shower. I've been laying here for days. I know I'll feel better once I get cleaned up."

"What, you don't like my sponge baths?"

"Fiiii…." he drew her name out.

She looked at him dubiously but pulled the wheel chair out of the corner of the room and pushed it up to him. "If you can get into this by yourself I'll help you to the shower."

"Agreed," he said, and mustering all his strength, lifted himself and slid into the wheelchair seat, artfully hiding his old friends, Pain and Dizziness.

Fiona studied his face. Still suspicious but satisfied he was, for the most part, okay, she pushed him toward the shower room. Arriving inside she stopped in front of the shower stall. It was clearly equipped for handicap access, but even so, she wasn't certain how Michael was going to proceed. Neither was he.

"Um," he stammered. "I think I might need some help," he admitted.

"Michael, are you sure you're up for this?" she said, turning the shower on and adjusting the temperature.

"I'm fine, Fi. I just need a little help," he said, tugging at the ties of his gown. "Like with this."

She smiled mischievously and undid the strings. Helping him to stand, she pulled the gown down and away from his body and sighed as she saw the mass of bruises covering his frame. She'd seen most of them before, but not all at once. They covered not only his torso but also much of his right hip. Even with the injuries it was hard not to admire 'naked Michael,' and she grinned at him again. Besides kicking his butt, she had other, more pleasant plans in store for them once he was better.

Trying his best to ignore what he concluded they were both thinking, Michael concentrated on the tape holding the bandages over his wounds. "Help me with this," he said, pulling at the tape edges.

"Michael, are you sure…"

"It's fine, Fi. I know what I'm doing." He'd get an earful from Barnsdale for certain, but knew from his own past experience getting the wound wet wouldn't cause any real problems. He hoped.

Fiona pulled the bandages free with a quick tug to each as Michael steadied himself against the wall. He inhaled sharply and his eyes widened at the sudden jolts of pain. Exhaling, he paused for a moment to gather his strength. Then grasping the railing of the shower stall, he took a tentative step forward. And nearly fell.

Quickly grabbing his arm before he went down, Fiona held onto him until he steadied himself. "This is _so_ not a good idea. Honestly, Michael," she tsked, and stepped into the shower with him, doing her best to stay out of the direct spray of the water but failing miserably. She sighed again, "You are so lucky this isn't dry clean," she said, indicating her blouse.

"Thanks, Fi." Michael put his hands against the wall of the shower and let the water cascade over his body. He dropped his head and closed his eyes enjoying the sensation of the warm water while at the same time willing himself to simply remain upright. He was so weak. Reaching for the bottle of shampoo he immediately dropped it.

"Michael, have I mentioned this was a bad idea?" Picking up the bottle and pouring a small amount into her hands, Fiona reached up and gently began massaging it into his short hair. Done with that she picked up a cloth, and after soaping it, gently ran it over his battered body.

It was at this point that Madeline entered the shower room. "Oh _there_ you two are!" she exclaimed cheerily.

_MA!_" Michael exclaimed in shock and mortification. The adrenaline of the moment giving him enough energy to make an attempt for cover, but there simply was none. No shower curtain. No towel. There was only Fiona. Lunging behind her he gripped her shoulders in an attempt to both hide and keep himself from falling. Alas, she did not lend much in the way of "cover."

"Michael!" Fiona shrieked, his sudden weight in the slippery stall nearly causing them both to fall. She reached for the railing to steady them both. Michael remained behind her, still gripping her slim shoulders for support.

"Oh for heaven's sake, Michael," Madeline scoffed. "I'm your mother. It's not like I've never seen you naked before."

"Not since I was _two, _Ma!"

"Well…" she said, puffing on her cigarette, "I see you've matured nicely."

And his mortification was complete. "_Ma!_" he exclaimed again, turning a brighter shade of red. He'd have nightmares about this moment for the rest of his life. "Ma, what are you _doing_ here?"

"Oh for heaven's sake, Michael. What is _wrong_ with you?" Madeline began again.

"What's _wrong _with me? What's wrong with me is my _mother_ is standing in my shower!"

"I'm not standing in your shower. Fiona is. And by the way, I don't see you having a problem with _that_. Is there something I should know about you two?" she asked, winking at Fiona.

Fiona began to turn to look up at Michael, only to be whipped back around to face forward again. Turned sideways she may as well disappear completely.

"Don't move!" he barked.

"Don't you order me around, Michael! I told you this was a bad idea!"

Just then the door swung open again and Sam's loud voice boomed, "Hey, where is everybody?" Followed by a bewildered and more than a little startled, "Oh!" as he walked in on the bizarre scene. "Uh…. sorry!" he exclaimed in thinly veiled horror. Partially covering his eyes he turned to the side, an embarrassed and bewildered look on his face. "Uh, so… uh… this is… awkward. Someone want to tell me what's going on?" Then changing his mind, "Actually," he said, grimacing, "You know, maybe that's a bad idea. I don't really want to know. At all. I think I'll just, uh, you know, uh leave?"

"Sam!" Michael all but roared. "Get me a towel!" Then, "You two," he said indicating the women, "Out!"

"Gladly," Fiona said in a huff, and began to leave.

"_WaitWaitWait_! Not yet!" Michael exclaimed, immediately realizing his error and gripping Fiona's shoulders all the more tightly. "Mom, _you_ leave _first_."

"Honestly, Michael. I had no idea you were so bashful," Madeline rolled her eyes. Then looking at Fiona asked, "Did you?"

"I had no idea," Fiona responded, her eyes wide and innocent.

"You know, thinking back, I guess he always was a bit on the shy side. And he was such a little fellow growing up," Madeline continued. "I think he filled out quite nicely though, don't you?"

Fiona shook her head in agreement. "Oh, yes," she said enthusiastically.

"Exactly. He should be proud of his body…"

Michael groaned in further frustration and embarrassment as the conversation continued. _Could this possibly get any worse? It was as if the two of them were discussing his nakedness over coffee._

Sam returned with a towel and handed it to Michael who released Fiona and grabbed for the towel, once again nearly falling.

"Whoa, there, big fella," Sam said holding Michael steady as Fiona and Madeline finally made their exit.

Just before she was out the door, Fiona looked back over her shoulder at Michael and grinned broadly at him, enjoying the moment. After what Michael had put them all through, a few moments of embarrassment was satisfying payback.

"Sam," Michael breathed. "Help."

Sam threw the towel around Michael, then unceremoniously deposited him back into the wheel chair. "Wait here," Sam ordered. Heading back into the room he grabbed some fresh scrubs and brought them back for Michael. By the time he had him dressed, Michael was shivering from cold and exhaustion. "Barnsdale is going to go nuts, Mikey. What were you thinking? And I hate to tell you, but that wound doesn't look too hot. You shouldn't have got in the shower until it healed some more."

"I don't know, Sam," Michael sighed tiredly. "But I promise I'll die from embarrassment long before I die from my wounds."

"I hear ya, Brother. That little scene back there was… well… disturbing."

"Yeah."

"I mean _really_ disturbing."

"Yeah."

"I mean, that sort of thing stays with you …"

"Got it, Sam."

"Like forever..."

"Sam!"

"I'm just sayin'…"

"_SAM!_"


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Wheeling Michael back to his room, Sam helped him back into bed. By now Michael was shivering uncontrollably. Sam scowled as he covered his friend with an extra blanket. "Okay, that's it," he said. "I'm getting Barnsdale. You think you can stay out of trouble for the next two minutes?"

Michael nodded, too miserable to protest. He was totally exhausted and couldn't remember ever feeling this cold.

"Okay, Buddy, I'll be right back," Sam said, frowning again and shaking his head. He was back a moment later, a furious Barnsdale in tow.

"You wanna tell me what the heck you were thinkin', boy?" Barnsdale fumed, crossing over to Micheal's bedside.

"S-sorry, Doc," Michael chattered.

"Sorry, Doc, sorry, Doc," Barnsdale mocked. "You blame idiot!" he swore under his breath as he pulled back the covers to check the wound. "Well, what little bit of scab you had is long gone," he said, scowling at the jagged flesh that had only recently begun to heal. "Didn't they teach you anything in spy school about taking care of wounds?" he continued to chastise, re-bandaging the wound as he talked.

Michael flinched at his touch, his breath hitching.

"That hurt? Good! Maybe next time you'll think twice about gettin' in the shower with your girlfriend when you got two holes in your chest!" Barnsdale nearly shouted as he taped the last bandage down, his customary gentle touch gone. Pulling out his stethoscope he proceeded to check Michael's heart rate and breathing, then frowned even deeper. Reaching over he grabbed the O2 mask and pulled it over Michael's face, flipping the machine back on. "Let me tell you something," he snapped, glaring at Michael. "You try anything else stupid. _Anything_. Including taking that mask off,_" _he growled, "and I'll put the restraints back on you _so_ fast it'll make your head spin. You think I'm kiddin?" he asked as he pulled Michael's blankets back up. "Try me."

Michael simply nodded, and closed his eyes. Almost instantly he was asleep, the exhaustion overtaking him.

"How's he doin', Doc?" Sam asked, approaching the bed, worry in his voice.

"He's fine, Sam," Barnsdale sighed, his voice calming. "Just set himself back a day or two, that's all," Barnsdale reassured. "I don't know what possessed him to do something so stupid," he groused.

"It's Michael, Doc. He's just not used to being out of commission."

"Yeah, I guess," Barnsdale responded. "Anyway, what's going on with our friend Larry?"

"I'm not sure, but my guess is we're gonna find out real soon," Sam said, running his fingers through his salt and pepper hair. "It's been a day since he lost one of his goons to Fiona's little cow patty surprise. There'll be more comin' and he'll no doubt be with them this time. Speaking of which, you got any weapons around here?"

"Just a handgun," Barnsdale answered. "Maybe a tranq rifle if you think you can use it."

"Yup, anything. We're gonna need all we can come up with. Thankfully Maddie had sense enough to load up her trunk with at least some of what Michael had stashed in her garage."

"So that's where the shotguns came from!" Barnsdale exclaimed.

"Yeah, that and a scope rifle and a few more items, but still not enough to hold off a full scale assault from Larry," Sam grumbled. "We'll need to improvise as much as possible. Anything you can come up with will help, so get your MacGyver on. I'm gonna go over and help Fiona. She's over at the house already working on some more surprises for Larry and company."

"Okay, I'll look around and see what I can come up with," Barnsdale said. "I don't think Michael should be left alone, though. Maybe you could send his Mama out to keep an eye on him?"

"Will do. That'll make her happy, anyway," Sam said, then glanced at Michael. "Though I'm thinkin' Mikey maybe not so much," he chuckled as he headed for the door.

"Yeah, well it serves him right," Barnsdale grumbled.

Meanwhile, Not So Dead Larry was back in Miami marshalling his strike force. His new number one minion had suggested they go in using overwhelming force. And though Larry had enthusiastically agreed, sadly it was just too hard to find good reliable psychopaths for hire anymore, especially on short notice. No, he'd have to settle on the ones he already had, supplemented with ridiculous amounts of fire power, and guided by the brilliance that was himself. "Lock and load, shock and awe, baby," he chuckled as he and his minions began loading two black SUV's. They'd soon be ready to leave.

While Larry gleefully prepared for his trip, Madeline arrived back at Michael's bedside. She'd been sent over by Sam to watch over her son and keep him out of trouble. _Fat chance_, she thought. She hadn't been able to keep Michael out of trouble since he was two. She was surprised to find him covered in blankets and the O2 mask back in place. Settling in the chair beside him, she was careful not to wake him. Within moments, she was dozing, too.

Several hours later Michael's eyes fluttered open to find his mother sleeping in the chair beside his bed. "Mom?" he asked groggily. "What are you doing here?"

Madeline awoke with a start. She hadn't intended to doze off. Collecting herself quickly she smiled at Michael. "Hi, Honey. Feeling better?"

"What are you doing here, Ma? You shouldn't be sleeping in a chair."

"Never mind me, are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just got a little chilly," he said, reaching to pull the accursed mask away from his face and then suddenly thinking better of it. "I'm fine," he said again through the mask. "_Trust me_," he said showing her his shark smile.

"Uh huh," Madeline said dubiously. And then her voice changed, becoming quieter, sadder. "Michael," she began. "I know in your life you've not had a lot of opportunity to learn about trust, but there comes a time when we… when _you…_ need to understand…"

"Mom, please. Can we just… Can we just not go there right now?"

"Fine," she said, her lips forming a sad smile. "Here," she said, pulling out a hand gun and handing it to him. "Sam told me to give this to you."

"Thanks, Mom."

"Be careful, it's loaded."

"I can see that."

"Okay, then," she smiled again. "You know, Michael," she said. "We might have sort of a…," and she struggled for the right word. "… sort of a… _different_ family, you, me, Nate, Sam, Fiona. Our lives are, well… I don't know if you know this, but _normal_ people don't live this way, Michael."

"I know, Ma. I'm sorry. I know this is not how you pictured it should be."

She held up her hand to finish, "But we love each other, take care of each other, _trust_ each other. And we _are_ a family, Michael. _Your _family."

"I know," he said, and smiled back a genuine smile …just as the sound of automatic weapons fire began.

_**A/N:**__ Oh my! We're on the home stretch folks. Sorry for the delay and the shortish chapter. I considered waiting and combining with the next but time was going by. Real life continues to keep me exceedingly busy. Thanks so much to all who are so kind to take the time to review. It is encouraging and much appreciated. Thank you! _


	24. Chapter 24

**CHAPTER 24**

Sam and Fiona heard the shots, too. A second volley followed shortly after, taking out the security lights on the farmhouse and barn, and lighting up the late evening gloom with a spectacular shower of fire and sparks.

"Here they come," Sam said evenly.

"Let's do this, then," Fi answered, slamming home the clip in her handgun. "I'm sick to death of this psycho screwing with our lives."

"I'm with you there, Sister."

Grabbing up the rest of their weapons and ammo, Fiona and Sam headed to the basement, exiting out into the yard through an all but hidden ground cellar door. They were now outside and about ten feet from the north side of the house, putting them between the house and the clinic barn. More random gunfire erupted, seemingly once again directed toward the farm house, but nowhere near their current position. As best they could tell, they had not been discovered. Suddenly a large explosion shook the ground and screams filled the air.

"There goes number one," Fiona said. "Two left and then it's just what we're carrying. I've five shells for the 12 gauge and one clip for the 9 mil. What about you?"

"Five cartridges for the scope rifle," he answered. "Barnsdale has the other shotgun and Mikey's got my side arm."

Fiona frowned. She already knew their ammo was low, but she had purposely kept her mind off what might be happening with Michael. She could not let her thoughts go there.

"It'll be enough," Sam assured, snapping her back to the situation at hand. "That one took out at least two of his men… either dead or injured. That wasn't just one guy we heard scream," Sam said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the explosion. "Larry likes working with four man teams in the field. Judging from the gunfire, he's got two teams out there. So... we're looking at nine guys including Larry. Now we're down to seven. Not bad, considering," he grinned.

Shouts and what they assumed to be retaliatory gunfire resumed. Most originating from the yard and pasture area and again aimed mainly toward the farmhouse. Sam also thought he picked up the sound of 9 mil fire coming from within the clinic, though he couldn't be sure. "Michael," he said under his breath. But Michael would have to take care of himself for now. Another explosion, another scream, then cursing followed.

"Six," Sam counted. So far he and Fiona had not fired a single shot, yet they had already reduced their enemy's numbers by a third. "Ready to move?" he asked.

"Positively," she answered.

"Alrighty then," Sam said. "Five minutes?"

"Five minutes," Fiona agreed.

And using cover from the increasing darkness, they separately began working their way around and behind the enemy. Hoping to flank Larry's men, they would catch them in a cross fire, pushing them forward and with luck, into the remaining explosive. They'd take the rest out with what fire power they had left. It was a pretty bold plan, but it was all they had.

Another concern was Barnsdale. He'd left the farmhouse a few minutes before the shooting began, heading over to both check on Michael and give Madeline her shotgun back. Whether he made it, they had no way of knowing, only able to speculate he had at least not been captured. If he had, they had reasoned, Larry would certainly have already used it to his advantage. No. Barnsdale had either made it into the clinic or was somewhere else hiding.

And then of course there was Madeline and Michael. Alone in the clinic, they had only the one hand gun between them, unless Barnsdale had been able to reach them.

_~As a spy, getting injured on the job is a given. Becoming incapacitated because of that injury is a problem. Not only do you become vulnerable, but, depending on who you're dealing with, you can also become expendable. You have to be able to rescue yourself. Or die trying.~ _

As soon as the gun fire began, Michael threw back his covers and forced himself to his feet, jerking the O2 mask from his face. "Lock the door," he hissed to Madeline, as he attempted to steady himself against the side of the bed. But just as his mother reached the door, one of Larry's men burst through, gun raised. Michael shot him through the chest and he dropped like a stone. Madeline screamed as another goon came through and once again, Michael took him down. "Mom!" he cried. "Get behind me!" but it was too late. Larry burst through the door, grabbing Madeline from behind, using her as a shield.

"Put the gun down, Michael," Larry ordered.

Michael hesitated.

"Put it down, now!" Larry roared. And then in a lower, more menacing tone, "You know I'll end her, Michael."

Michael had been on twenty missions with Larry Sizemore by the time Larry faked his own death. It was said he'd come back without a soul. In reality, Larry had lost his soul long before faking his death. When Michael had heard the news of Larry's supposed demise, he'd heaved a sigh of relief, grateful circumstances had taken care of what eventually Michael had intuitively believed he would need to do himself someday. Kill Larry. Though the government had deemed them to be a good team, Michael felt the opposite. And when Larry "died" Michael had felt nothing except relief. Then when Larry came _back_ from the dead, the man was even worse than before. His new line of work, not that it had changed much from Larry's old line of work, was to kill people. Except now he did it for money. And sometimes sport. And sometimes sheer hatred.

Michael put the gun down. "Don't hurt her," he said, holding his empty hands out and away from his side.

Larry gave him a toothy grin and slammed the butt of his gun down on Madeline's head. She slumped bonelessly to the floor, a bright red stain blossoming through her white hair and pooling on the floor beside her head.

"Ma!" Michael screamed and lurched forward.

"Uh uh uh!" Larry warned. "Get back!" he ordered, bringing his gun up and cocking it.

"I'll kill you for this," Michael said, hatred in his eyes.

"Finally!" Larry rejoiced. "Finally I see the man I knew you could be! I'd given up on you, son!"

"Where's Sam and Fiona?" Michael asked, his voice flat.

"Oh, my men are taking care of them as we speak," he said. And as if to punctuate his remark, a burst of gunfire was heard. "That's probably them dying now," Larry said brightly.

_**A/N:**__ Dunt dunt duhhhhhh… LOL! Oh my, boys and girls! Did Fiona and Sam run out of bullets? Did the bad guys get them? Could they be…dead? Where's Barnsdale? What about poor Maddie? Oh, and would someone like to suggest a name for the current #1 minion? :0) Please consider taking time to review._


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

Barnsdale had just entered the clinic when the gunfire began. His first instinct was to rush to Michael's room, but then thought better of it. Walking into a room containing Michael Westen, not to mention Michael Westen's _mother, _on any given day required, at a minimum, caution. Walking in on a _wounded_ Michael Westen and his mother whilst a gun battle raged outside would be nothing short of suicide. No. He'd live longer if he stayed put. Ducking into a side storage room just inside the main door, he found a reasonably good hiding place and killed the lights, waiting and listening for an opportunity to help, but keeping out of the way and alive in the meantime.

Outside Sam and Fiona continued to make their way around and behind Larry's goons, waiting for each other to get into position. Checking his watch, Sam waited another thirty seconds, and then using the scope rifle found a target and fired. The figure pitched backward onto the grass and lay still.

At the same time Fiona opened fire from her position, though her weapons did not have the same long range kill power afforded to the scope rifle. Still, the flash and boom/bang of the shotgun and pistol was more than effective enough to move their plan forward and drive what was left of Larry's men toward the remaining bomb. Within seconds another explosion filled the air. It was the last of the explosives, but Fiona's grand finale had managed to take out another enemy.

If Sam was right, they were now down to only four hostiles. Picking up on another target, Sam fired a second round and one more figure spun around and fell dead to the ground. They were now down to three. But where _were_ those three? Sam scanned the area with the night scope of his rifle, seeing only Fiona. He watched as she inspected and then tossed away an apparently damaged handgun liberated from one of the downed goons. She was also missing her shotgun. He assumed she left it after the shells were gone. Making his way closer to her position, he called out quietly, not wanting to be mistaken for a target or give their position away.

"It's Sam. I'm comin' in," he hissed. "You got eyes on anyone?" he asked as they joined up.

"No," she responded, and they both turned and looked toward the clinic.

And it was all the opportunity Larry's new Number One Minion needed. Robert Fletcher, aka New Minion One, stepped out of the shadows. He'd hung back until now, biding his time, sending his men in before him, just as Larry had done. He'd watched as they were picked off one by one, and waited for the opportunity he knew would eventually come. And come it did. In the moment it took for Sam and Fiona to turn their attention back from the clinic, he was standing before them. His automatic weapon raised, he had the safety off, and his finger resting on the trigger.

"Bob," Sam nodded, feigning calm casualness, recognizing the man instantly.

"Samuel," he responded, nodding back, but not lowering his gun.

"You know him?" Fiona asked incredulously.

"We ran into each other a time or two," Sam said dryly, "Back in the day."

"Ah, yes," Bob tsked. "Samuel has put a damper on more than one of my past… endeavors," he replied.

"So, now you're what… just a psycho for hire?" Sam asked. "Slipped a bit on the food chain, haven't you?"

Bob flinched at the comment, frowning, "My employer gave specific instructions I was to bring you to him alive," he said, "but accidents do happen, Samuel. I'd watch my manners if I were you," he warned, and raised the gun a little higher. Then he looked to Fiona and smiled. "Pity," he said, but there was anything but pity in his voice. "My employer left no such instructions concerning you."

And in that instant Sam understood the meaning of his words. And in that same instant Sam stepped between the gun and Fiona as Bob pulled the trigger.

Several rounds of automatic fire ripped across Sam's chest and shoulder spinning him around and driving him to the ground. Astounded at the turn of events, Bob simply shook his head in disbelief as he watched Sam take the rounds intended for the woman. He was even more surprised when he looked back to Fiona again and found himself staring down the barrel of her handgun. "For Sam," she said simply, and pulled the trigger.

"Fiona!" a voice called out from the darkness. It was Barnsdale, approaching quickly, shotgun in hand. He'd heard commotion close to the clinic and had crept to the door, looking out just in time to see one of Larry's men get the drop on Fiona and Sam. He'd tried to get into range with the shotgun, but it had happened too fast. By the time he was close enough, it was all over. Running up he found Bob lying dead on the ground at Fiona's feet. It was clear without checking he'd not be bothering anyone again. Sam was a few feet further away, face down, not moving.

Rushing to his side, Fiona and Barnsdale gently rolled their friend over onto his back. "Oh, Sam," Fiona's voice quivered as Barnsdale tore open Sam's bloody shirt.

Inside the clinic Michael watched helplessly as his mother lay unconscious and bleeding on the floor. _I'll kill you for this_, he had said to Larry. And Larry had rejoiced, even calling him son.

Forcing himself to remain calm, Michael attempted to buy time… and also remain upright. He was beginning to see spots dance before his eyes. Gripping the edge of the table for balance he glared at Larry. "Why?" he asked. "Why all this? This couldn't have all been about Sam."

"He killed my friend."

"What friend?" Michael asked. "You have no friends, Larry."

"Okay, well… more of an acquaintance," Larry admitted. "A very wealthy acquaintance. You knew him as Hans Wilhelm."

"Hans Wi…" Michael stopped mid sentence, truly surprised. "You're telling me you knew Wilhelm. You were there. In East Germany… back in '84," he said skeptically.

"Like I said, he killed my friend."

"He killed an unrepentant murdering tyrant who'd done unspeakable things to innocents."

"Minor Details," Larry shrugged. "He was still my friend. At least until he paid me," he added, "Which, by the way, he never got a chance to do, thanks to Axe. People don't cross me, Michael. They don't cross me and they don't cost me money. You of all people should know that. Axe cost me a lot of money." Then he added, "He also cost me _you_."

"And now we finally get to the truth," Michael said.

"He ruined you, Michael. I had plans for you. Big plans," he said. "We were like Butch and Sundance, you and me. Until Axe got hold of you."

_~When you are a spy, you come to realize there is often a grain of truth hidden in every lie. Finally seeing that truth… and coming face to face with yourself, can be a scary and difficult thing to accept.~_

While Larry might have been the devil on Michael's shoulder, Sam had become the angel on the other side, albeit a somewhat tarnished one. Sam was Michael's voice of reason, Larry the voice of madness. When Michael began working with Sam, the older man had reined him in, pointing out the dangers of everything Larry, and reminding Michael of what he was doing and why he was doing it. Michael was a patriot. And patriots, though sometimes forced to live in the shadows to do the job, always reached for the light. Michael had drifted too far into the dark world of Larry. And the truth was a small part of him had lived there, accepted it, and even enjoyed the freedom that came with it. But Sam had reached in and pulled Michael back. And Michael had seen the light and reached back toward it, leaving the darkness behind and Larry to his own demons.

"You were like the son I never had," Larry continued. "I'd have given you everything, Michael. …_Did_ give you everything. You were my protégé," he said, and there was true sadness in his voice. "I wanted you back, Michael. I realize now it's too late."

"Larry," Michael said evenly, "You don't have to do this. Just walk away. It's not too late."

Larry shook his head. "I've seen the real Michael Westen. You were great, once. You were just like me."

"I was never just like you, Larry."

"But you could have been," Larry said, and then heaved a sigh. "But now you simply bore me, Michael." And Larry raised his gun a bit higher. "I was going to wait and kill that chucklehead Sam and your skinny little girlfriend first but I've wasted enough time. They're probably already dead, anyway," he shrugged. "My men aren't known for their self control." And then as an afterthought smiled and added, "It's a feature, actually." Then locking eyes with Michael, "It's been nice knowing you, kid," he said with a hint of sadness in his voice. "But now it's time to die." And the shot echoed through the small room…

_**A/N:**__ Oh I am just getting so BAD in my old age! LOL! I'm sorry, boys and girls. I just couldn't help myself! Thank you to all who take the time to review. Thank you also to those who add this story to their "favorites." I see you and thank you. Please do consider taking the time to also post a review. It means a lot!_

_Oh! And thanks for all the suggestions re the "name the minion" request. The most requests were for BOB so I went with that! :0)_


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

The blast of the gun echoed through the small room. Michael flinched. Losing his balance, he staggered backwards. He looked down reflexively; in search of the wound he knew was there, surprised there was no pain. In fact, there was no impact. Larry had … missed?

And then suddenly a plume of blood blossomed and began to spread across Larry's chest, staining his white shirt a dark crimson. His gun hand dropped limply to his side and he staggered to turn around.

There stood Madeline, smoke still wafting from the barrel of the pistol she held in her hand. She had regained consciousness shortly after falling but had done her best to play dead, waiting and hoping for an opportunity to save her son. And while Larry focused on Michael, that opportunity had come. Slowly she had eased the side arm away from the dead guard beside her, and angling the barrel toward Larry, fired. The bullet tore upward through Larry's back, exiting through his chest. Standing up shakily, Madeline now faced Larry eye to eye as he turned to see his assailant.

Shock and true amusement showed in his face as realization dawned. "Mama Bear," he said simply and shook his head. "You just gotta love this family," he smiled, blood in his mouth. But while Larry was smiling and talking, his finger was sliding back to the trigger of his own gun.

"Ma," Michael began to warn her, but there was no need.

Madeline pulled the trigger a second time. "Nobody hurts my boy," she said. And Dead Larry dropped to the floor, this time well and truly dead, the bloody smile still on his lips.

Michael slumped backwards and slid down the wall.

"Michael," Madeline said, moving quickly to her son.

"Mom," he said, looking up at her, frowning at the blood matted in her hair and staining her shirt. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, Michael. I'm fine," she smiled. "You of all people should know what a hard head I have," she grinned again. "Are _you_ alright?"

"I'm fine," he answered, and tried to stand. "Where's Fiona and Sam? Where's Barnsdale?"

"I don't know," she answered. "But you stay down. I can't hold you _and_ myself up," she warned, pushing him back down.

"I have to help them," he began to argue, just as Fiona called out.

"Michael!" Fiona shouted from the hallway, shotgun ready.

"Here," Michael answered. "It's clear."

Fiona and Barnsdale entered the room, taking in the scene. Barnsdale checked the men on the floor, confirming what he already knew. Fiona went directly to Michael.

Michael put his hand to her face, "Fi," he breathed, searching her eyes. Then seeing the blood on her clothes worry spread across his face.

"I'm fine," she said. "It's not mine."

Michael looked past her, the realization of Sam's absence dawning on him. "Where's Sam?" he asked quickly. And panic rose in his voice. "Fiona. Where's Sam?"

"Right here, Buddy," Sam said, arriving in the doorway. He was bloody and had a makeshift bandage on his shoulder. Bandage or not, blood ran freely down his arm, drenching his hand and running over the butt of the gun he held. "You guys alright in here?" he asked, balancing himself against the door frame.

"Didn't I tell you to stay put!" Barnsdale fumed, rapidly crossing the room to Sam's side and grasping him by his good arm. "Do any of you people ever _listen_?"

Michael exhaled deeply and smiled. Leaning back against the wall he closed his eyes with relief. "You okay, Sam?" he asked tiredly.

"What? This?" Sam asked, gesturing toward his shoulder. "I get worse than that shaving." But then the world tilted and he staggered a bit. "Whoa."

"Okay, I got two words for you, Axe, _'Safety Razor.'_ Now, sit down!" Barnsdale all but bellowed, steering him onto Michael's hospital bed. "Lay back. I gotta get this bleedin' stopped. _Again_," he added, and gave Sam an accusing look. Walking to the counter he opened a drawer and pulled out a bandage. Tugging it open, he slapped it over the wound, pressing down firmly. Sam grimaced from the pressure. "Good thing you were wearing your vest, or there'd be nothing to put a bandage _on_."

"I hear ya, brother," Sam had to agree.

Barnsdale motioned to Fiona. "Give me a hand?" he asked.

"Sure," she said, crossing over to them.

"Press down here," Barnsdale instructed, grasping her hand and placing it over the bandage. "Keep the pressure on. I'll be right back. I need to check the other two," he said, and stepped away to check on Michael and Madeline.

"I'm getting tired of you bleeding on me, Sam," Fiona tsked in mock annoyance.

"Hey, I'm getting' tired of _bleedin_, Sister. How 'bout next time _you_ get to be the one to step in front of the machine pistol."

"I'd have shot him before he had the chance to shoot me," Fiona countered in a sing song voice. "I can't help it if you're getting slow," she teased as she continued her attempt to both distract Sam from his pain and staunch the blood still slowly oozing from his wound.

Barnsdale left them to their feigned argument and headed across the room to Michael.

"I'm fine," Michael waved him off. "Take care of my mother," he ordered.

Barnsdale nodded and went to Madeline, guiding her into a chair. She sat down heavily, and looked up at him, tired and more than a little pale. Barnsdale smiled at her encouragingly and gingerly began inspecting the gash on her head. "Looks like you might need a couple of stitches," he said, "But it's not too bad," he added. "How many fingers am I holding up?" he asked as he held three in front of her face.

"Oh for crying out loud," she exclaimed, slapping his hand away. "Three. Now will you go take care of my son? I'm fine," Madeline said.

Barnsdale rolled his eyes and walked over to Michael. "The apple sure didn't fall far from that tree," he grumbled under his breath.

"What?" Madeline asked.

"I said, 'You're lucky I'm doing this for free,'" he covered, and then added again under his breath, "I know that's right." Then stooping down beside Michael began to check him over. "Okay, what new damage have you done to yourself now?" he asked.

"None. I'm fine," Michael said tiredly. "Just help me up."

Barnsdale scoffed, but pulled Michael to his feet and helped him to a chair next to Madeline. "You two think you can stay put whilst I look after Axe?"

They both blinked back at him innocently.

"That's what I thought," Barnsdale sighed in resignation and returned to Sam. "How's he doin'?" he asked Fiona.

"Okay," she said. "I think the bleeding stopped."

"I'm fine," Sam insisted.

"Uh huh," Barnsdale scoffed, gently peeling back the bandage and looking more closely at the wound. "You're gonna need surgery to get this bullet out of you. I recommend a Miami hospital, but I'm guessing you want me to do it?"

Sam smiled weakly up at him in response.

"You know, I could make a good livin' just takin' care of you people alone," Barnsdale grumbled.

"How's he doin', Doc?" Michael interrupted.

Barnsdale jerked his head back and rolled his eyes. "You see, this is _just_ what I'm _talkin'_ about," he groused at Michael who had made his way over and was now standing shakily beside him. Jerking a chair over, Barnsdale pointed. "Sit!" he ordered.

Michael sat, not willing to argue. He was more concerned about Sam. Pale and covered in blood, there was no mistaking the pinched expression of pain etched across his friends face. "He okay?" Michael asked again, truly worried. He was not used to seeing Sam in this condition. Sam had always seemed to Michael pretty much invincible. Sure, he'd get banged up now and then, but nothing like this. Now that the shoe was on the other foot Michael began to understand some of the stress he must have put his friends through over the years.

"Yeah, brother, I'm fine," Sam reassured. Then glancing toward where Larry lay on the floor, "Looks like it's finally over."

"Almost," Michael said. "Almost."


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

Fiona opened the door to Michael's room and flicked on the lights.

Starting awake, Michael shielded his eyes from the sudden brightness and looked around, momentarily confused.

"Good morning!" Fiona trilled, entering the room.

Stiffly Michael moved himself up on the pillows as the events of the past few days flooded back. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes with the palm of his hand, he grunted out, "What time is it?"

"A little after eleven," Fiona answered, walking over to him. "And before you say anything, I know you told me to wake you by seven, but you were exhausted. Your mother thought you should sleep. I agreed," she added.

Michael rolled his eyes. "I'm forty years old, Fi. My _mother_ no longer gets to say how long I should sleep."

"Really?" Fiona asked, raising her eyebrows and smiling. "Because, I think she just did, Michael."

Sighing in defeat he opted for a change in subject. "How's Sam?" he asked.

"He's fine. He's awake, actually, if you want to go see him," she said. _As if anyone could prevent it,_ she thought to herself. It had, in fact, been all they could do just to get Michael to lay down once Sam was out of surgery. Even then he'd insisted on waiting until the older man was out of recovery. Once Sam was settled in the one and only hospital bed, Michael had finally allowed himself to retreat to the cot in the next room.

"I'm going over to the house and clean up a bit," Fiona said. "You need any help before I go?" And she batted her eyes at him in an exaggerated fashion. "Perhaps a sponge bath… or a shower," she smiled, drawing the words out seductively. "We could take one together, Michael." The words tripped off her tongue.

"No, I'm good," Michael answered, staring toward the door that led back inside the clinic, effectively ignoring her playful flirtations.

"Okay," she said, undaunted. Lightly touching her hands to his face, she kissed him fully on the mouth, drawing his bottom lip out as she pulled away. Then smiling, she turned and sashayed toward the door.

He watched her go, this time giving her his full attention. There was a limit to how much even Michael Westen could ignore, no matter how distracted he was.

Fiona smiled as she continued to walk away, knowing his eyes were on her. "See you later, Michael," she called back over her shoulder, and was gone.

Michael sat for a while staring after her, then snapped back to the moment at hand. Easing his legs over the side of the bed, he pulled himself to a sitting position, still exhausted and more than a little sore from his wounds. Running a hand over his face, he clambered to a stand, balancing himself with one hand against the wall. Taking a deep breath, he frowned at the twinge of pain that still accompanied the act, and then walked shakily through the door and into Sam's room.

Sam lay on the hospital bed, hooked to the infamous heart monitor. Various leads ran from beneath the white cotton blanket that covered him. An IV snaked from his right arm and a thick bandage swaddled his left shoulder and upper arm. He looked pale and old beyond his years. And contrary to what Fiona reported, appeared to still be sleeping.

Michael quietly eased a chair up beside the bed and sat down… a little more quickly and heavily then he intended. The jolt of his landing sent flares of pain through his abdomen and chest. Screwing his eyes shut, he grunted and sighed heavily… which sparked another twinge. _This was getting old._ Opening his eyes he was surprised to find Sam staring back at him. Awake after all, a flicker of humor glinted in his friend's tired eyes.

"Rough landing there, Pal?" Sam asked.

"Yeah," Michael frowned, thoroughly tired of being weak and in pain… and worse, other people knowing it. "I thought you were asleep."

"Yeah about that," Sam said. "I thought you spies were like, you know... supposed to be stealthy or somethin. I gotta tell ya, Mikey, you make a heck of a lot of noise for a spook. Just sayin."

"Sorry, Sam, 'didn't mean to wake you."

"Aw, I'm just pullin your chain, Mikey. I wasn't asleep. Just restin' my eyes." And Sam flinched painfully as he reflexively tried to motion with his left hand. "Keep forgettin' not to move that," he grimaced, nodding down at his injured arm. "So how's everybody doing? You holdin' up alright? Fi? She was in here earlier by the way. I think. I was still a little foggy then." And he held his arm up with the IV. "Barnsdale's got me all doped up. Oh well. Least I didn't have to put it in myself," he grinned. "Hey, did anyone get hold of Virgil? He okay? How's Madeline? She manage to shoot Barnsdale yet?" and he grinned again.

Michael looked back at Sam who was still smiling at him. _Indomitable spirit _was such an understatement when it came to this man. Sam had been through as much as all of them. More, really. And here he sat… or rather lay, making light of it all and wanting nothing more than to know how everyone _else_ was doing. It made Michael respect him all the more. Here was the man who should have been, and he realized now, _had been_, his mentor. Not Larry. _Dead Larry_, he thought to himself. It was such a relief to know the man was finally well and truly dead.

"Hey, Buddy!" Sam rapidly snapped the fingers of his good hand in front of Michael's face. "You okay? Whatcha thinkin' 'bout, brother?" Sam asked, bringing Michael back from his thoughts.

Michael coughed. "I was thinking we should talk, actually," he said, shifting uncomfortably in the chair.

"Okay, buddy." And catching the earnestness in Michaels tone, Sam attempted to sit up a little higher in his bed.

Michael jumped to help him.

"I got it," Sam grimaced. "Thanks, man. Geez, this gettin' shot thing … I'm getting too old for this," he said and shook his head. "Hey, you don't have a beer on you, do ya?" he asked trying to lighten the mood.

"No, Sam. Sorry, I don't," Michael smiled.

"Yeah. That's okay. Barnsdale'd probably have some sort of mental collapse about it anyway. Thanks to your mom his nerves are pretty well shot," he grinned.

As if on cue the door opened and Barnsdale entered the room with Madeline following close behind. "How's my latest patient?" Barnsdale asked, walking over and checking Sam's vitals. "Wiggle your fingers for me," he directed, watching Sam's hand.

Sam complied, wiggling the swollen fingers of his left hand.

"Good," Barnsdale smiled. "You havin' any pain?" he asked as he checked under the bandage on Sam's shoulder.

"I'm fine, doc. Geez, it's not like I'm dying here. Can I get some of this stuff off me?" he asked, indicating the various tubes and leads attached to his body. "I mean geez Louise. Give me a beer and I'll be on my way."

"Not likely," Barnsdale snorted.

"What's not likely?" Madeline asked, coming forward, cigarette in hand. "Hi, Sam," she said. "How you doin'?"

"Hey, Maddie," Sam replied but was interrupted immediately by Barnsdale.

"Oh no no no no no. No, you don't!" Barnsdale exclaimed. "No smoking in here," he exclaimed, and in a moment of bravery… or perhaps it was insanity, reached down and plucked the cigarette from Madeline's lips.

Michael and Sam's eyes went wide.

"If you gotta smoke," Barnsdale continued, handing her back the still lit cigarette, "you go outside or in the barn. Not in my clinic."

Aside from the steady beep of Sam's monitor, total silence filled the room as Madeline gave Barnsdale a sour look. Smirking she put the cigarette back in her mouth, and never breaking eye contact, took a long drag. Purposely she proceeded to blow the lungful of smoke directly into Barnsdale's face. Then reaching up with her hand she smiled and patted Barnsdale gently on the side of his cheek. Looking over at Sam she winked, and then proceeded out the door and down the hall.

Michael whistled lowly.

"Wow," Sam said simply.

"She's not smokin' in my clinic," Barnsdale said flatly.

"Alrighty then," Sam said. "I'm just saying I'd watch my back the next few days if I were you."

Barnsdale shook his head and headed back out to the main office of the clinic, leaving Sam and Michael alone again.

_BNNB BNNB BNNB BNNB_

Madeline made her way down the hallway and was now standing in the barn, surrounded by empty kennels and stalls. Finishing the first cigarette she ground it out beneath her foot. Taking out a new pack from her side shirt pocket, she was in the process of shaking a fresh one loose when a vaguely familiar voice called out.

"Maaaaaaaa…" the voice called, and a large goat appeared from around the corner. "Maaaaaa…" it wailed. Walking up to Madeline it tilted its head slightly, looking her in the eye. "Maaaaaa…" it said again.

"Oh, Ma yourself, you rotten goat, I remember you," Madeline huffed. "And I'm not your mother. Besides, I have enough trouble with my own kids."

The goat ignored her and zoned in on the pack of cigarettes she now held in her hand. "Oh no you don't," Madeline warned. "This is my last pack. Don't you even think ab…"

The goat lunged. Clamping it's yellow teeth around the package, it wrested the cigarettes from Madeline's grip and took off with them out the door and into the adjoining paddock.

_BNNB BNNB BNNB BNNB_

Meanwhile Michael was attempting to resume his conversation with Sam. That is if staring silently into space qualified as attempting. His mind desperately searched for the right words, but he simply had no clue.

"Look, Mikey," Sam broke the silence. "If this is about this Larry thing, it's over. Don't worry about it. I just didn't understand why you thought you had to do it alone. And working with that undead buzzard Larry, well… you know. It sort of wigged me out. But, hey, it's over now. You were just trying to protect me. I get it."

Michael still stared ahead, unable to begin. "I…" he faltered. I wanted …" and he hesitated again, truly not knowing how to put into words what he so desperately wanted to say. "I'm sorry," was once again all he could come up with. He shook his head, irritated with himself.

"Mikey, it's okay," Sam assured him. "Really. You can stop beating yourself up. Everything is fine. Relax."

"No. It's not," Michael said adamantly, and finally the words he had been searching for came rushing out. "You wanted to know why I did this alone," he said, looking at Sam. "I wanted to protect you. But I also wanted something else," and he now averted his gaze, choosing to stare instead at the wall. "I wanted you to be proud of me, Sam." And he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Michael Westen was not used to baring his soul. "I didn't even realize it myself until now," he said softly. "I wanted to fix this for you. Make you proud of me."

"Michael, you don't need me to be proud of you. It doesn't matter."

"It matters… to me," Michael said.

Sam stared back at his friend in silence for a moment and then finally spoke. "I don't know why you care what a washed up old booze hound like me thinks," he said. "But I _am_ proud of you_,_ Mikey," he said softly, kindly. "I always have been.

Michael stared at the floor, a lump forming in his throat.

"Look, Mikey. You're my best friend, but I couldn't be more proud of you if you were my own son." Then he grinned again. "Of course, I'm kinda _young _to be your dad," he coughed. "I like to think of myself as more of an older brother." Then the grin faded and with sincere earnestness he added, "And I couldn't be more proud."

There was silence for a moment and then Michael spoke up. "Hey, Sam?" he said, looking up at him again.

"Yeah, Mikey?"

"So, since you get to be my older brother now. I was wondering…"

"Yeah, Mikey?"

"I was wondering if you might teach me something."

"Teach you something? Like what?"

"Teach me how to snap."

"How to what?"

"How to snap," Michael repeated. And he held up his hand and rubbed his fingers together. There was a decided rubbing sound, but no snap.

"Oh man. That was pitiful," Sam said, almost in disbelief. "Mikey, that's like a life skill!" he exclaimed, all the while snapping with his good hand rapid fire. "I mean, you never know when you're gonna need to snap!"

"I know," Michael said, in mock shame. Then brightened and smiled his shark smile. "Can you teach me?"

"You got it, brother," Sam smiled.

Suddenly they were interrupted by Madeline rushing into the room.

"Where's my shotgun?" she shrieked.

"Ma, you can't shoot Barnsdale," Michael rolled his eyes.

"I'm not going to shoot Barnsdale! I'm going to shoot that _#&%$_ goat!" she exclaimed, and stormed back out of the room, presumably in search of the shotgun.

"Your mom's a crazy woman, Mikey."

"Yeeaaah," Michael sighed.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

It had taken hours of explanation to the local authorities. Countless questions answered, re-answered, and answered again. Only after Michael pulled in what was agreed would be the last ever favor from his FBI "buddies," had the local law enforcement finally accepted their stories. Of course it hadn't hurt that they were also handed several known felons on a silver platter… at least what was left of them.

And so the police went on their way. Pulling out of the dusty driveway, they left with only a warning not to leave the state. Michael had nearly laughed, assuring them he had no such plans.

As the bodies were tagged, bagged, and carried away, an odd sense of uneasiness washed over Michael. Watching Larry's body being unceremoniously loaded into a waiting van, Michael couldn't help but think '_there but for the grace.'_ For Michael understood all too well that the darkness that had been in Larry was also in him. But unlike Larry, Michael had family; friends willing to put their very lives on the line for his sake. And because of them, every day a little more of the darkness faded into light. He was not Larry Garber. He was Michael Westen. And he still had a soul.

Walking back to the farmhouse Michael found his mother seated at Barnsdale's kitchen table, absently twirling a finger around the outer edges of an empty saucer. Sipping coffee, she surprisingly held no cigarette in her hand.

"Hi, Mom," he said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "How are you feeling? How's your head?"

"I'm fine, honey," she said. "Is it over?"

"Yeah," he said tiredly, rubbing his eyes and leaning back in his chair. "Pretty much. We still have to get the file, but I'll figure something out."

"I know you will sweetheart," she said, and she sipped a little more of her coffee.

"Mom? Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, sweetheart. Anything."

He hesitated briefly, then asked, "Are you happy?"

She was surprised by the question and paused for a moment before answering. "Yes, Michael. I am," she said at last, then added, "Or at least I would be if I could find a cigarette!" she laughed a little too harshly. "_D&#n goat_," she muttered under her breath. Then her face softened and she asked, "Why, honey?"

"I don't know. I guess… It's just…," he stammered. My life… It's not what I planned for it to be."

"I know the feeling," she snorted. And patting him on his arm she got up from her chair and poured him a cup of coffee. Bringing it over, she put it on the table in front of him and sat back down again.

"Do you have regrets?" he asked softly.

"Of course I do, honey. You know… the obvious ones. I made a lot of mistakes, Michael. Mistakes I am…" and she reached across the table and put her hand on his, "so sorry for." And she looked him in the eye. "But there is nothing I can do about the past," she sighed, and looked away. Then sitting up straighter in her chair she looked back at him and smiled. "And so I live in the present and do my best. And I look forward to the future." And then grinning, added, "… now that I know I have one again."

"Mom," he began, "I'm so…,"

But she simply smiled and waved him off. Then her expression became serious again, and she cupped her hand to his face. "What I'm trying to say is, don't let happiness slip through your fingers, Michael. Forget the past."

"The past is my life," he said, and his voice caught ever so slightly. Embarrassed, he quickly pushed past his emotions. Taking in a breath to compose himself, he flashed his patented shark smile.

Madeline sighed sadly. "No, Michael. The past is the past," she said gently. "It's gone. You're here, _now_. And _this_ is your life. This moment, and what you make of it from this moment on. Your life is now, Michael. Don't be afraid."

"Afraid… Mom, I'm n…" but his voice trailed off. He stared at her for a while as the truth of her words sunk in. Slowly he rose from his chair. "Thanks, Mom," he said, and there was a new purpose in his voice. Kissing her on the cheek he walked outside into the warm evening air. Barely acknowledging Sam and Barnsdale, who were now sitting on the front porch, he continued past them both and went down the few steps into the yard. Looking across the paddock he spied Fiona leading a horse in from the far pasture. Crossing the yard, he strode through the pasture gate toward her.

"Hi, boys," Madeline chirped, stepping out onto the porch with her cup of coffee. "How are you two doing?" she asked.

"Oh, hey, Maddie," Sam said. "We're good," he answered. "Still a little banged up, but I guess I can't complain," he added. "Pull up a chair. We're just sittin' here admiring the view."

"Gonna be a beautiful sunset," Barnsdale commented.

"Sure is," Sam agreed. "There for a while I wasn't sure I'd see another one."

And beautiful it was. The setting sun had turned the sky a deep crimson; silhouetting the cattle in the pasture, along with Fiona as she continued to cross the field, leading the horse back toward the barn.

The group watched with mild interest as Michael walked out to join her.

"You'd think that stupid horse would figure out to come back for dinner by now," Barnsdale grumbled. "Never does, though. Gotta go get him every time."

"Yeah, well. After all that shooting, I can't blame him," Sam said.

"Whatever," Maddie said, not liking the reminder of the past days ordeal. "That sky looks like something out of Gone with the Wind," she continued the small talk, changing the subject back to more pleasant things and sitting down with her coffee. "Wish I had my camera."

"Yeah. Beautiful," they agreed, and sat in silence, soaking up the beauty of it.

"Holy crap!" Sam exclaimed suddenly, struggling up from his chair.

"What?" Madeline jumped, nearly spilling her coffee. "Sam!" she exclaimed, irritated.

"What is it?" Barnsdale asked, going on alert.

"Is he?" Sam continued, ignoring them both and staring intently out over the pasture. "Holy crapola!" Sam exclaimed. "He is!"

"Is what?" Madeline snapped and then both she and Barnsdale followed Sam's gaze just in time to see Michael take Fiona by the hand and drop to one knee…

_**A/N: **__Aaaiiiighhh! LOL! _

_Sorry for the veeery long delay for this last chapter. Two surgeries and a not so fun several weeks later… I'm back! Woo Hoo! _

_I know I said this would be the final chapter, but time was dragging by. I can either end it here or I can do an epilogue of sorts to tie up the loose ends. Please consider reviewing and let me know what you thought of this chapter and if you're still with me!_


	29. Chapter 29

Madeline's cup dropped to the floor with a crash. Unbroken, it lopsidedly rolled across the porch and off the edge, exploding into a thousand pieces as it met the top concrete step. It could have been a hand grenade and no one would have noticed. For the complete and total attention of the group was focused solely on Michael and Fiona. No one moved, no one breathed as they watched the scene unfold in front of them in sundrenched silhouette.

Michael reached Fiona with a single purpose. Bewildered she stared at him as he wordlessly took her by the hand and turned her toward him. "Michael, what?" she asked.

He stared at her for a moment, his heart nearly breaking just at the sight of her. "Someone once told me you were my past," he said finally, searching her eyes. "I told them they were wrong," he continued, then looked away trying to get a grip on his emotions. Swallowing hard, he looked back at her again and pressed on. "But they were _right_," he said quietly. "Fiona, you _are_ my past."

She began to speak but he put his fingers to her lips, stopping her. "You are my past. And my present," he said. And dropping to one knee, he continued. "And, Fi, I hope with all my heart you'll be my future." Looking up at her he asked, "Fiona Glenanne, will you marry me?"

Fiona stared down at him, eyes wide. She stood there for a moment, frozen in place. Then suddenly without warning, flung herself bodily into his arms.

Michael grunted in pain as she crashed into him, sending them both reeling to the ground and the horse she had been leading, bolting. Rearing it spun around and away, heading back to the far pasture. Fiona ignored it, raining a torrent of kisses down upon Michael. "Is that a yes?" he gasped, trying to speak.

She stopped for a moment and looked at him, her hair falling forward. "That's a yes," she smiled.

In response he rolled her from him and onto her back, kissing her slowly and softly there in the grass. Pulling away he stroked her face, cupping it gently in his hand. Staring at each other for a moment, they both began to laugh. And intermixed with his laughter, _almost imperceptibly_, catching in his throat, Michael wept, for he had never known such complete happiness.

_~BN~NB~BN~NB~BN~NB~BN~NB~_

Ten days later Michael pulled into his mother's driveway. Exiting the car he walked toward the front steps only to be greeted by a large goat. Pulling his sunglasses off he stared in disbelief as he edged around it and made his way into the house.

Snuffling the air and unable to detect even the slightest hint of nicotine, the goat simply watched him pass, languidly continuing to chew its cud.

Michael walked into the house to find his mother cleaning her refrigerator. "Ma, you brought the _goat_ back with you?"

"Isn't he cute?" she trilled.

"It's a 'her', Ma," he corrected, but then shook his head, getting back to the more relevant issue. "What are you going to do with a _goat_?"

"The goat and I have come to an understanding, Michael. Besides, I like him."

"Her."

"Whatever."

"What about the neighbors? Are you even allowed to keep a goat here? Don't you have an HOA or something?" he asked as he nonchalantly popped a section of her living room paneling open.

"Oh for heaven's sake. This coming from _you, _Michael?" she scoffed as she watched him remove a box of det cords hidden behind her living room wall. "_You're_ worried about my neighbors… and me breaking a _housing_ covenant?" She rolled her eyes. "Besides," she grinned. "You should be happy! That goat did something you and your brother have been trying to get me to do for years!" And she held up an empty, spotless ashtray in triumph. "In case you haven't noticed, Michael, …I've quit smoking! Me and the goat are officially nicotine free! Besides, with you and Fiona getting married, I bet it won't be long before we hear the pitter-patter of little feet! Right? I have to get ready!" she all but squealed.

"Yeah," Michael drawled out. "I'm gonna go, now, Ma," he said, and hastily made his exit.

"Don't forget you and Fiona are coming over tonight! I'm cooking!" she sang after him. "After that we're all going to look at bridal magazines! Bring Sam, too!"

Michael sat in his car for a moment trying to process it all. Everything about his life always seemed so surreal. He started the engine and drove back toward his loft, wondering absently if other families were even remotely like his. He thought of the people he considered family; his mom, Fiona, Sam, Nate, even Virgil and yes, Barnsdale, too. _No,_ he was fairly sure his family was pretty unique.

Pulling up to his gate he cut the engine and climbed from his car, only to be met by a middle aged man dressed in a business suit and holding a large manila envelope.

"Michael Westen?"

"Who?" Michael responded reflexively.

The man frowned. "I have documents for a Michael Westen. Is this you?" he asked, holding up a photo that was obviously Michael.

"Documents? What kind of documents?" Michael asked, glancing only briefly at the picture as he unlocked the metal gate.

"From the estate of Larry Sizemore," the man said, and handed the envelope to Michael. "Have a good day," he said flatly, and got back in his car and drove away.

Michael parked the Charger and headed up the steps to his loft, frowning over his breathlessness as he reached the top step. Though his wounds had basically healed, he was still not back to his old self. Barnsdale had warned it would take time. Even so, he was impatient, tired of not being a hundred percent. He paused for a moment to catch his breath, then pushed open the door. Sam and Fiona greeted him as he came in.

"Hey, Mikey," Sam called out. A half empty beer bottle in hand, he was sitting in Michael's favorite chair. "How 'ya doin'?" he asked, his arm still in a sling from his own injuries.

"Your breathing sounds a little harsh," Fi commented, walking over to him and looking at him closely. "Michael, Barnsdale told you to take it easy."

"Yeah, brother, I noticed you paused there for a while at the top of the steps," Sam added. "You okay?"

Michael frowned. _Nothing_ got past these two. "I'm fine," he said, then changed the subject quickly as he crossed the room to his kitchen, Fiona following after him. "Soooo…. my mom has a pet _goat_ now," he said, throwing the envelope down on the counter and pulling a yogurt out of his fridge.

"Yeah," Sam replied. "Cute little fella."

"It's a girl," Michael corrected, then looked at Sam with surprise, "You _know_ about this?"

"Well, yeah, Mikey," Sam answered. "I mean she loves the thing. Once she got over the whole, you know, cigarette incident."

Michael simply shook his head in disbelief as he pulled a spoon from a drawer and peeled the top from his yogurt.

"What's wrong with your mother having a pet, Michael?" Fiona chimed in. Grabbing the yogurt and spoon away from him before he could take his first bite, she crossed to the bed, plopped down and began to eat. "Ooo, new brand?" she asked, enjoying the flavor.

Michael narrowed his eyes at her.

"What?" she asked innocently.

Sighing, Michael turned back to the fridge for another yogurt.

"I say if it a pet makes her happy, why not?" Fiona continued, waving her spoon about as she talked.

"It's a _goat, _Fi. Goats aren't pets, they're…" his voice trailed off as he held up his hands in defeat. He may as well be talking to the wind. "Whatever," he said, and then stood stock still as he realized he'd just sounded exactly like his mother. Shaking his head he moved on. "Look. I have other news. I know we were going to talk about the Rincon job for your …friend, Sam, but," and he picked up the envelope and let it drop back to his counter, "It looks like Larry's back. Sort of."

"How many times do we have to kill that man?" Fiona exclaimed.

She was interrupted by Michael's cell ringing. "Yeah, Ma," he answered, hitting the speaker.

"Michael! It's Barnsdale! He's in my rose bushes and I can't get him out!"

"What?" he exclaimed in shocked confusion. "Barnsdale? What?" Michael asked again. "Ma, slow down. You're not making sense. Barnsdale's at your house?"

Sam and Fiona snorted, exchanging looks and grinning.

"Oh my gosh!" Madeline shrieked over the phone. "He's headed for the trellis! Michael!"

"What? Mom!"

He was interrupted by Fiona. "Michael," she said, grasping his arm. "Your mother named the _goat_ Barnsdale."

Staring at her in disbelief, he frowned, rolling his eyes. "Ma, I gotta go," he sighed and clicked off the phone.

Michael looked at Fiona and Sam. "This," he said, holding the phone up. "This is what I'm talking about."

Shaking his head, he went back to the envelope on his counter, opening it as Sam and Fiona gathered 'round. Staring at the document now held in his hands, he couldn't believe his eyes. It was Larry's Will. Scanning through the scant two page document, it stated Michael had inherited all. Including the contents of one safety deposit box located at a very high security bank. A safety deposit box they were, by now, _all_ very familiar with.

"Well it looks like that problem is solved," Michael said, looking at Sam. "You know, Larry told me he gave me everything," he said quietly, remembering his words back at the clinic. "I guess he really meant it."

Sam looked at the paper work and attached accounts. "There's millions, here, Mikey," he said soberly.

"It's blood money," Fiona grimaced.

"She's right, Mikey."

"What are you going to do, Michael?"

"I'll try to give back what I can," he answered. "The rest… I don't know. Maybe we can use it for good somehow. Finance some of these jobs we get."

"Sounds like a plan, Mikey."

"Meanwhile, at least we can get that file of yours, Sam," he said.

"And I was so looking forward to using some of my new C-4," Fiona sighed, smiling at Sam. "Oh well." Walking over to Michael, she came up behind him and slid her hands around his waist, leaning her head against his back. "So, she sighed. "It's finally over?"

He turned around to face her. "It's over, Fi," he said, wrapping his arms around her.

"So does this mean we can concentrate on our future?" she asked.

"As much future as Miami holds for its prodigal son," Michael answered, moving a stray hair gently from her face and looking into her eyes.

"Yeah, um…" Sam interrupted. "I'm gonna go now," he said uncomfortably, jerking a thumb toward the door. "Hey, Mikey, don't forget to practice your snap!" he called over his shoulder as he headed for the door, but before he reached it, Michael's phone rang again.

Hitting the speaker Michael answered, "Yeah, Mom."

"Michael?" she was almost screaming now. "Michael! You have to come quick! It's Barnsdale! I think… Michael! I think Barnsdale is having a _baby_!" she cried.

Michael clicked off the phone and held it to his forehead, trying to massage a newfound headache away. Then looking up at Sam and Fi, they simultaneously broke into laughter. Picking up his keys, Michael, Sam, and Fi headed for the door together.

"So Mikey. You been practicing your snap?" Sam asked as they walked down the steps.

"Workin' on it, Sam."

"Hey, I'm here for you, brother. A little older, a little wiser, a little more mileage…"

"A lot more mileage," Michael corrected.

"Oh, now that's not nice."

"Sorry, Sam," he smiled as they all got in the Charger and headed toward Madeline's house.

"So…," Sam began. "Anyone here know anything about deliverin' _goats_?"

_~BN~NB~BN~NB~BN~NB~BN~NB~_

Months later Michael stood alone in a black suit and red silk shirt and tie. His cover name that day was Lewis. Surrounded by street thugs, he calmly raised one hand and simply snapped his fingers. The snap was sharp, loud, and clear. Instantly explosions erupted about him as he stood stock still without so much as a flinch. His red silk tie fluttering back from the breeze of it, and the scrambling thugs the only evidence of how close the destruction. Slowly the faintest hint of a smile appeared on Michael's face as he turned and walked away. Sam would be proud.

**~THE END~**

_**A/N:**__ Okay, I know, I know. Two things: _

_1) This does not fit at ALL with the timeline of the "real" story. To that I say, "Oh well!" LOL! It was the best I could do._

_2) What about the WEDDING? LOL! I'm sorry, boys and girls. Maybe I'll write a sequel._

_Other than that, did you like it? I sure spent many an hour writing this monster. Thank you so much for all the reviews. I do hope you'll take the time to check in and post one final comment and share your thoughts. Who knew this would turn into the behemoth it did? This was only my second fic and it sort of took on a life of its own. The first was for Stargate Atlantis. I was simply never happy with it, so I pulled it. I'm considering going back thru this one and tweaking it a bit. With no beta… it needs a LOT of tweaking I'm afraid. _

_I'm not sure I have the time to devote to another story. Perhaps if one of you would like to co-write one with me? _

_In any event, thank you to everyone who came along for this crazy ride, and especially to those of you who took the time to leave a review._

_Oh, and one more thing: I don't own anything Burn Notice. Please don't sue me. I have enough problems. :OP_


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